The Game of Champions
by L. Lamora
Summary: There are many trainers in the world; they exist in degrees, from dabbler to legend.  But only one can be the very best - one man, one Champion.  I am that one.  I am that man.  My name?  Red.
1. Prologue: Detente

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Prologue

Détente

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_"Good men must die, but death cannot kill their names."_

_-Ancient proverb, unknown origin_

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A white room with one door.

Glaring lights.

A wall of clouded glass.

Three warriors around a table, two to a side, one to the other.

Only one of them spoke true.

-(=0=)-

I'm well and tired of this.

All of it, I mean. The games, the machinations. The torture. I'll talk.

I'll tell you a story. My story. The answers you seek won't have the weight they deserve without it. Answers are much like gemstones: their real worth is found when they are cut, polished and set. I'm no shoddy jeweler. You'll have my answers through this story or not at all.

Let's begin with an introduction. I already know you two, but you most assuredly don't know me.

Call me Red. You may have heard of me.

Red is not my name. It's a nickname, the homegrown kind that takes root in childhood, latches on and grows on through adulthood until it is an inseparable part of one's identity. Everyone now makes a big deal of it, but it's really quite a simple story, simple start and simple end.

I have red eyes. It's technically genetic and I'm not albino, as you can tell from my hair, which has never lightened a single shade from charcoal black no matter how many hot afternoons I spent in the sun on the Professor's research ranch. I know 'technically' has perked your interest, but I'll get to the story behind that in due time.

As you grow up these things tend to matter less, but when you're a child, it's more than enough to separate you from the herd. Perhaps in another time and place it might have been considered attractive, but not in this world of pokemon. Red eyes are distinctive of a number of species, some not particularly docile or friendly. Looking back, I have to admit there is a twisted veracity in that childish logic which served to ostracize me from my peers.

It was an excuse, though. My mother and I had never been a central part of the Pallet Town community to begin with. For one, we were new to town. My mother had moved to Pallet Town alone carrying me, notably absent of any partner save her pokemon. My mother knew no crafts but the keeping of our home and garden, and never made any effort to integrate into the rural town despite more than enthusiastic encouragement from the settlement's population of single men. And finally, we were, put bluntly, poor. Thanks to the various jobs my mother jumped through around town, we did not starve, yet paying tuition to the single schoolhouse in town strained our finances to the limit. I learned quickly to give thanks for the patched clothing on my back, lest I cause my mother undue guilt or sorrow.

I have no idea how much any individual parent let slip in the home, but my reputation as the scion of the family on the other side of the proverbial tracks became common knowledge among the children my age. They were not at fault. They only learned it from their parents. The red eyes gave them justification.

I do not mean to paint Pallet in anything resembling a bad light. Pallet Town was a sleepy valley town with mild people who, though as flawed as anyone else, for the most part kept their problems to themselves. I was not bullied or discriminated against or picked on. I was simply alone.

Well, almost. Let me tell you about Blue.

Blue is not his name either, obviously. It's the nickname I gave him in return. It'll make sense in a second.

Blue was the golden boy of the valley. You may think you know him, from his celebrity biography and soft-ball interviews, but I will set the matter to rest here. It was no exaggeration to say there was no child more beloved in all of Pallet Town. He was an Oak, the venerable Professor's grandson. He could not run through his own town without a gaggle of children following. He did not as much thrive in the attention as live in it, as he does today. Blue was born to be the center of attention. He was a vain, prancing braggadocio then and will still declare it louder than any other man until the day he dies.

I've heard those who have met him sometimes call him a bully. How utterly droll and unrefined, not to mention childish. Blue is a bully the same way politicians are liars; bully is nothing more than a term coined by a whiny child lacking both power and the knowledge of how to apply it. Blue knows what he wants and knows how to get it. It is no one's right to complain that he has the guts to seek it without shame.

That is not to say he does not pack the bite to back up his bark. Blue was nothing less than a genius. He could name every pokemon in Kanto and most of Johto by his ninth birthday. He could command a growlithe or pidgey as well as a town militiaman by eleven, and always came in first in faux pokeball throwing contests. Blue had been working towards a trainer's license since he first started walking. He'd wanted to leave at five years earlier, following the whole Youngster craze that came with the legal age being lowered from sixteen to eleven, but his grandfather wouldn't hear of it. It was a point of much conflict between them. Blue had ideas even then, you see. He didn't just meander into where he stands now. He always was the sort to change the world rather than let it change him.

Graceful fighter, dashing champion, quiet revolutionary. That is Blue.

The day we exchanged nicknames was the day of a particularly bad fight between him and his grandfather. It was late in the afternoon in the Pallet Town park and the rest of the children had already headed home for supper. I did not. I always stayed out later than them. My mother never complained. Be it out of trust in me or trust in the security of Pallet Town, she always gave me a long leash, something for which I owe her my habits of self-reliance and eternal gratitude. My reason for this wait was very simple. I wanted a turn at the Pokemon Wall.

The Pokemon Wall was the informal name the side wall of the park bathrooms had earned over years of chalk graffiti. Officially, you weren't supposed to write on the side of the building, but it was such a popular pastime that the policemen almost always looked the other way. The Pokemon Wall, as named, was absolutely covered in puerile depictions of the wondrous, terrible monsters which dominated our land, with varying amounts of skill. Only the skill didn't matter. It was the game.

Catch'Em All had very simple, easy to follow rules. You covered the wall in chalk pokemon, first. You had to buy the cheap, one idol chalk down at the general store, because it flaked when hit, which made line calls easier. Twenty, thirty, it depended on how many were playing. You made sure they were single types, fire or bug or water or flying. Dual types always ended in arguments. Typically, dragons were excluded too, as everyone agreed they were unfairly strong. Sometimes, in a hurry, they were just circles with their type written.

Then you took a tennis ball and tried to hit them. If you managed to wing one and catch the ball on the rebound before it hit, then you caught that pokemon. You write your name or initials on the drawing and continue. You could catch balls other people threw on the rebound and you'd get that pokemon. You didn't want to do that until later though. If you touched it last and you didn't catch it, the pokemon got released and ate you, unless you had 'caught' your own pokemon. If your pokemon had a weakness against the pokemon dropped, it ate you anyway. If there was no type advantage, you lost your pokemon but didn't die. If your pokemon had the type advantage, you beat that pokemon and kept your own. The game progressed as people got eaten until there were only two left. The winner was then decided by type advantage, or, alternatively, loud shouting matches and imaginary battles.

I was a pro at this game. When I did manage to sneak into one of the larger games, it always came down to me and Blue. Blue always won, though, somehow always managing to get type advantage every time. This continued until I won one time and a girl roofed my ball in retaliation. I stopped playing around there.

I played alone, then. I used a discarded tennis ball I'd cored out and filled with sand until it was roughly the weight of a pokeball, which I'd gauged from my mother's, which held our hapless family mistermime, a pokemon whose true importance I could not even begin fathom at that time and still have trouble believing now. I picked up one of the leftover bits of store chalk and dragged circles onto the wall at varying heights. I then stood a sporting distance and proceeded to catch the holy hell out of some faux pokemon. I don't remember missing once.

After about twenty throws I became aware I had an audience.

He wasn't Blue quite yet, then. He was the esteemed Gary Samuel Oak. I can't remember exactly what I thought of him back then, only that it was considerable less charitable than what I do now. So maybe I still kind of blamed him for the roofing incident. Forgive me. I was young.

He grinned a devilish grin at me, as if he hadn't been missing all afternoon. His denims were dusty from the way I would later learn he ran all the way down from the pokemon ranch in a tantrum. "Good arm there, Red." He said. "Mind a partner, or are ya chicken? Buk buk buk!"

I ignored his teasing, and asked him what the whole 'Red' thing was about.

He shrugged and gave me a scrunchy-faced 'well, duh' look. "Your eyes." He said.

I thought about that, and then told him in that case, he was Blue.

Blue frowned.

I told him it was because he was my opposite, what with his grandfather and my mother and everything.

I meant something along the lines him being the rich idol and me the dirty vagrant from the wrong side of town. He told me later he thought I meant something like because I had a mother and no father and limp dark hair while he had a father (sort of) and no mother and lighter spiky hair. Blue may be many things, but never an elitist. He has only ever discriminated against anyone with just cause. He also tells me that it bothered him at the time, mentioning his grandfather, but by the Legendaries if Blue showed it even a whit on his face that day. He cocked his head and shrugged again.

"Well all right then." Blue said.

And that was that.

The game was brutal. We played full scale, all the known Kanto pokemon, including dual types and dragons. We had to stop to debate engagements several times, and it was heated. It was intense, it was tiring and we both argued ourselves hoarse and threw our arms lame. It was the greatest day of my life.

We played all the way past the setting sun and into the night, where the full moon was so bright that it was as if day had never left. Eventually my mother showed up. Instead of stopping us, she watched. After a few minutes she made a call on the street phone. Several minutes later, Professor Oak's ponderous old pickup truck came rumbling down the street, and he got out and watched too. Neither of them said much. They just watched as Blue and I raced to catch'em all.

I can't truly remember how the night petered out after that. We had worked our way through the Kanto pokemon and gone into the full Indigo League list. We had to keep playing, we knew – to stop would be to dispel the magic of the game. I remember the last engagement being between a dragonite and a salamence, which was basically an even match since they were both Dragon-type and we both knew the argument would never end…the details aren't important. The night was important. It was a magical night.

The next day, Professor Oak released the first pokedex.

But anyway, that's how I got the name Red.

Oh, you'd like to know my real name, would you?

Like I'd tell you, Rocket scum.

-(=0=)-

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry # 122 ( J. #158 ): Mistermime._

_Basic Characteristics: Psychic-type, bipedal humanoid, avg. height 4'03, avg. weight120.1lbs, androgynous._

_Description: Body and limbs are covered in tough, smooth white/off-white/tan exoskeleton. Limbs are connected to circular/oval torso section by large, bulbous red exoskeletal orbs designed to protect from dislocation of joints and to vibrate at high speeds, producing the 'barrier' effect. Similar orbs are observed at the tips of all fingers, capable of equally high vibration and barrier-creation abilities. Two short tufts of indigo/dark blue hair extrude from the skull. Two pink, round exoskeletal patches protrude from the cheeks. The feet assume shapes similar to the shoes of a jester, having the consistency and feel of thick leather, allowing mobility and balance without sacrificing defense. The face is humanoid, with features frozen in whatever expression the mistermime was wearing at birth when it's exoskeleton hardened. Eyes are somewhere around 1.3 times the size of a normal human eye, and in all typical cases assume a crimson hue._

_Nicknames: The Barrier Pokemon, The Clown Pokemon, The Silent Pokemon, mimey(s), Pokeclown(s)._

_"…The Mistermime is an interesting and unique specimen that stands out as strange even among the natural bizarreness associated with psychic types. It emits no distinguishable cry and displays no vocal capabilities whatsoever, despite possessing the biological ability, leaving it to researchers to name. It was assumed to be a Normal-type until it was realized that the mistermimes' intentions were perfectly clear whenever it wished to communicate them. Looking into this, the researchers were able to discern that they communicated through sign language, though they were unable to establish an alphabet or pattern, as replicating the gestures effected no discernable response from other pokemon, once again pressing the dreams of decoding the universal pokemon language far beyond reach. They are not a popular household pokemon, as many find their humanoid appearance and fixed expressions unsettling, but they enjoy common use in military defense and are an essential part of the limiters in pokemon stadiums, though their exact purpose is kept secret to prevent attempts at sabotage and cheating. Mistermimes produce asexually, and are always harsh but protective parents…-"_

-(=0=)-

1) Idol: Indigo Dollar, short for Indigo League Dollar, the official currency of the Indigo League. The Indigo penny always features the faces of Governor Satoshi of Kanto and Governor Hibiki of Johto side by side, who forged the Indigo Alliance, but the face of the dollar and quarter traditionally feature the Grand Champion of the Indigo League, and is reprinted every time a new one is crowned. The five, ten, twenty and fifty show the current Elite Four, and the hundred shows the current governors of both Kanto and Johto. The nickel and dime feature the Kanto and Johto Pokemon Professors, and the lobbying shadow wars over who gets which are the stuff of legends.

2) J. # : Johto Pokedex number. As the Indigo League is held together by an unsteady and often contested alliance, neither of the two regions has seen fit to put together a collaborative Indigo League Pokedex, necessitating many such small footnotes in the Kanto and Johto Pokedex.

-(=0=)-

This is my story. It's not about the games, serials or television show. It is, most accurately described, a little bit from all of them.


	2. 1: A Single Step

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Chapter One

A Single Step

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_"There is a woman at the beginning of all great things."_

_-Alphonse de Lamartine, originating from an ebook of French poetry recovered from electronic records_

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"Why aren't we just cracking his skull open with a psychic mallet and scooping out what we need?"

"...we're _trying._"

-(=0=)-

My pokemon journey started when I was sixteen. It used to be the minimum age for a trainer's license and the age at which you could sign up for government service in the pokemon rangers or Kanto militia. I suppose if I were more concerned about security and stability I might have traveled to one of the cities and enrolled in a university, or perhaps sought apprenticeship with one the famed Kanto professors' labs, but I was not. My wanderlust had been an unstoppable force ever since I watched the trainers of our senior graduating class venture out into the tall grasses. As it happened, I left a day after Blue, and the Legendaries take me if it didn't feel like an eternity's headstart then. It still does, even now.

Do you know he took on the Elite Four? And of course, the Champion. Lance, the Dragon King. They all fell like dominoes. Grand Champion Blue. Undefeated.

Well, almost. But I digress.

Sixteen. That was when it started.

I suppose a good place to start would be graduation day. It was a little after the final ceremony, where I and most of the rest of the class had watched Blue and several other students of the Pallet Town senior class receive their starting pokemon and head north through the tall grasses towards Route 1. There were four of them, this year, much reduced from last year's rate and a full two dozen less than two years prior. The cause behind this was the Youngster movement.

Five years ago, the Indigo League had been in dire straits. Active trainer registration was at a record low, and all the extremely promising newcomers were years off of being able to apply for a license or being snapped up into high-paying corporate jobs. The release of the pokedex only made it easier for working trainers to retire to supporting roles, as the pokedex made pokemon watcher roles magnitudes easier, jumpstarting pokemon research like nothing else since the ultra pokeball. I knew of it from the newspapers, over which Professor Oak's face was pictured for months, and still showed up rather frequently over the years after. The roads were becoming less and less safe with rangers and militiamen retiring, so the Collective Mayoral Congress of the Indigo League passed the Young Trainer Registration Act, which lowered the legal age of trainer license from sixteen to eleven with due demonstration of pokemon aptitude. Registered young trainers would be limited to patrolled Routes and required to report in frequently in city centers. It was intended as a stopgap measure, until they were old enough to enlist in the pokemon rangers and militia at substantially higher salaries, with hefty bonuses to go along with it. The first generation of young trainers, nicknamed youngsters, graduated with the first commercialized pokedexes in their hands.

It was universally agreed to be a complete disaster.

The definition of 'pokemon aptitude' was lobbied back and forth across the political field like a pinball. Reports rolled in every day of child corpses found in the wilderness, mauled to death by pokemon they had mistakenly treated the same as domestics while exploring. Those youngsters not killed going outside the Routes died from lack of discipline, from starvation and simple bad sense. However their technical aptitude, they were simply not old enough to take care of themselves.

The Act was hit from all sides with vitriolic invective. On a bright day it was generously referred to as a child soldier program. Most days, however, the Young Trainer Act was seen about as favorably as dropping babies into a cheese shredder. It was banned in half a dozen cities, and harshly regulated in all others.

It had a variety of effects. While it did lower pokemon attacks on Routes, it was also linked to a rise in pokemon crimes, pokemon abuse and trainer brutality, never mind the galling mortality rate.

Now, the focus was mainly on fully trained, quality trainer applicants. I had to give the Professor credit – he had smelled the disaster a mile away and used his influence to exclude Pallet Town from the initial list of settlements adopting the Act. That didn't stop several students from traveling to Viridian and registering anyway. I heard a few of them even survived the first few years.

One of the requirements for trainers now in Pallet Town was the application fee and the pokedex. I had saved the money to pay for both over many, many years – savings which had ultimately gone to waste when a flock of pidgeot had beat up a windstorm mating over Pallet a few days previous, knocking over a tree into our small house before the Professor and the militia could chase them off. There was no question of whether or not to contribute. I threw my own savings into our reconstruction. Now my money was far, far depleted. It would take years of saving to save up for the exam money, never mind the pokedex.

So that brought me to where I was then, lazing on a pile of straw outside the ponyta stables on the Oak ranch. I'd been hired on as a ranch hand at eleven, beating out many other classmates who had hoped for a similar job. It was a dream, even the dirtier parts.

I know you Rockets think of pokemon as beasts. Animals, to be exploited like every other creature on Earth, including human kind. And in a sense, you're right. They are flesh and blood. A rattata will die, as simply as an insect.

But that is where all similarity ends. Pokemon are nothing like the other things which walk this land, not in means or in methods. Their power, their very presence signifies ideas of such magnitude that even I, who have stolen secrets from the barrows of history, can scarcely grasp at their edges. They are certainly much more than your tiny corporate mind can even imagine.

Do you remember when you saw your first pokemon? Do either of you remember the awe you felt? No? You've lost it, then, body and soul. You're lost.

I am so, so sorry.

No, I won't elaborate.

-(=0=)-

I wasn't lazing that afternoon, but procrastinating. One thing I was putting off was the feeding of Shiryuu, the Professor's dragonite. Shiryuu was notoriously temperamental for a dragonite and took malicious glee in bowling over ranch hands when he was hungry.

The other thing was my plans for the future. I had always planned on leaving this day, at Blue's side. There had been no room for anything else in my plans. I'd spent the last few days in almost complete catatonia, unable to believe that my dreams had been snatched away so quickly. My mother had given me my space, and for once, Ashford, our family mistermime, had no ready antics to distract from the pangs of loss.

And then it was the day. This day. This morning I'd watched my one and only rival march out into the tall grass to pursue his own pokemon journey. He'd even gotten a little media attention, a live interview on behalf of up and coming trainers, which had been the talk of the town a few weeks back. Blue was gone, and he hadn't even looked back once.

I was lost. Left, without a purpose, adrift in a sea of indecision. Should I leave today? Should I wait until I had saved the money for licensing?

One thing was for certain. This place had to go. I could not grow old in Pallet Town.

I sighed and gathered Shiryuu's dinner from the freezer, accepting the chore as a method of getting my mind off the present, if only for a few minutes. I took a pair of keys off the rack, threw the tauros meat in the back of one of the several buggies which the workers and research assistants used to traverse the sprawling Oak ranch, and set off towards the cliffs.

The research ranch was truly amazing, as was expected of the official Pokemon Professor of Kanto. It had taken me years of working there to fully appreciate how difficult it was keeping so many pokemon together without catastrophe. Every other day there was an incident with the more aggressive species. Usually the handlers' pokemon could handle it (there were different pokemon used for managing each habitat – I myself was carrying the standard growlithe on my belt at that moment), but occasionally, Oak himself had to step in to mediate.

And I by mediate, I do of course mean release his giant goddamn gyrados and threaten to Hyper Beam the lot of them if they don't settle down. Typically, intimidation duty was split between the gyrados and Shiryuu, this week being the gyrados's turn to be on stink-eye patrol. Shiryuu, in the mean time, would be where he always was on his days off.

I parked the buggy a good distance away so as not to disturb the great beast. The dragon had wrecked more than one vehicle for interrupting his sun-bathing naps on the edge of the cliff, even for lunch. I hoisted the bag of meat over my shoulder with a grunt and made my way over to the great serpent where it was dozing on the steep edge of the plateau.

Shiryuu was a magnificent, ancient specimen of a dragonite, with a scaly golden hide and cream-coloured leathery stomach covered in scars and blast marks which spoke of battles of an unspeakable level of power, considering how hard a dragonite's scales were reputed to be. His claws and horn were chipped and scratched, and one of his two jagged conducting antennae drooped at half the length of the other. I had always wondered if such a blemish would diminish the strength of his terrifying electric attacks, or only make them harder to control. I never remembered to ask. His ragged wings fluttered gently as he awoke, sensing my approach.

Now, I do not remember whether it was recklessness or apathy that spurred it, but something drove me to meet the dragon pokemon's eyes as he awoke.

Oh yes, he attacked. And I suppose I'm a ghost sitting here talking to you. No. I'd be dead if he attacked.

What Shiryuu did do was roll over, and in one fluid movement, knock me off my feet. I was pinned to the ground under a massive claw with a face full of snarling dragon before I could blink. The wind rushed out of me in a whoosh as I landed hard, hat tumbling off my head. I could not have tried reasoning with him even had I abruptly started believing such a foolish thing would work. Fortunately, I did not need to.

Averting my gaze, I brought up both palms, splayed my fingers and wiggled them in a gesture I had picked up from Ashford one day in the street, when he had been cornered by an arcanine not too thrilled about his proximity to her new litter.

Mistermimes were notorious for their being the only pokemon who used no words, not even in their psychic communication. Researchers were reportedly unsure if it was a compulsion or a biological inability to grasp the concept. What was certain was that they communicated somehow, and not simply through their hand gestures, whose responses they had been unable to replicate. At that time, I was merely of the opinion that they hadn't copied them right, as they had always worked well enough for me.

Shiryuu gave me one more full second of hot stinky dragon breath before his roar dropped into a low rumble, as he shifted his weight and interest off of me. I rose gingerly and replaced my hat, feeling the beginnings of bruises I was sure I would not enjoy later as I eased oxygen back into my lungs. But then, I was the idiot who had decided to look a dragon pokemon in the eyes, which was a bad idea with any aggressive species, especially dragons. Only Oak, his trainer, did that and got away with it.

The dragonite snuffled at the closed bag eagerly before I plucked it out of his way. He'd gone and ate it whole before, and the cloth hadn't gone down well. I yanked it open and fished out the first huge tauros slab. Shiryuu's pupils dilated immediately as he caught the scent.

I tossed it up in the air, and the dragonite charcoaled it expertly with a blast of dragon fire before snagging it in his jaws, chewing vigorously. Tauros meat was incredibly dense and thick, so much so that even the dragon's maw, filled with stalactite teeth powered by muscles with the power to crush boulders, had trouble masticating it. It was the same meat used in pokemon ranger jerky. The novelty of the dragonite's eating trick had long since worn off on me, and I sat down, knowing it would take Shiryuu a good minute to choke down the thick beef.

Deciding it wasn't exactly the worst alternative, I decided to ask Shiryuu what he thought my next course of action should be.

Predictably, he completely ignored me, focusing on his meal. Small jets of smoke and flame escaped his nostrils as he worked the blackened meat around in his teeth.

Shiryuu finished it in about thirty seconds, a new record. He must have been hungry. Dutifully, I chucked the next steak up into the air, watching it disappear in a flash of fire and gums.

I explained my fears and trepidations. The safer choice would be to wait for the money to accumulate once more and register then. I'd never even considered taking a ranger or militia scholarship; through some reasoning or logic I had firmly decided I had to be a trainer first, a journeyman, free of debts and obligations, searching the lands. I wasn't quite sure what I'd be looking for, but that didn't change the strength of my convictions. One didn't necessarily have to know what one was looking for to find it.

The other option was to register at Viridian. I knew from research that the trainer licensing exam was much cheaper there, even within my meager means, because of the large population and the limited starting pokemon supply. They also did not require the purchase of a pokedex along with the license. If I went there, I could become a trainer almost immediately, albeit one lacking a starting pokemon or pokedex. It wasn't such a terrible imposition in and of itself, as I knew from school how to capture a pokemon without the aid of your own, but it'd put me at a tremendous disadvantage compared to Blue. But then again, when had I not been the underdog in that exchange?

Blue. It always came back to Blue.

Have you heard of the term 'unspoken agreement'? Blue and I had something like that. It was never verbalized or said aloud, but we had both always known it would come down to us. Me vs. him, him vs. I.

And look at us now. They're calling Pallet 'The Town of Champions' nowadays. Did you know Professor Oak used to be a champion?

Of course you do.

My reverie was broken when Shiryuu nearly bowled me rather rudely with his wing, obviously through with waiting for his last tauros breast. I thought of an odd thing as I dispensed it: perhaps Shiryuu's interruption was input of its own.

Bear with me, here. Shiryuu acted according to his nature. He obviously didn't care about the troubles of some human who brought him food. Contrary to popularized belief, empathy did not beget power.

Perhaps that was the answer, then? Follow my nature.

I know it seems flimsy, but keep in mind that I was in a dark place at the time. Any answer seemed preferable to no answer. I bowed before the dragonite and gave a thanks that was only half sarcastic. Then I booted up the buggy and headed back to the main complex.

I can feel your trepidation. No, I didn't run off immediately to begin my epic quest. I did, however, punch out early, calling in one of the many favors the other ranch hands owed me for working their shifts. Shiryuu's 'answer' had given me something to occupy my thoughts, and no smart man handled pokemon with their head halfway out of the game.

What was my 'nature'? I considered the question as I made my way down the trail leading from the Oak ranch to the main town. My bike had broken the previous summer, so I had walked every day since then, nearly ten miles there and back. It was good exercise. As I passed through the marketplace, a response began to form.

Every person has a dream. Sometimes it is grand, like becoming a celebrity or star trainer. Sometimes it's more humble, like raising a family, or acing the next exam. There's one other thing all people seem to hold in common: surrender.

Everywhere I look I see defeat. People capitulating , settling for less, being 'close enough'. I remember a few examples of this that stuck out in my mind as I passed them in the street.

The diner owner was a lean, balding man with an outdated trainer's license on his wall, missing a finger and a half on his burn-scarred left hand. You could see him every tournament night at the bar, screaming battle strategy louder than any of the other patrons. Had he ever won a cup of his own?

The wrinkled coffee shop marm, who you could hear singing through the window at closing time in a fetchingly young soprano. Had she ever held an audience?

I recall my mind drifting back to the ranch I had left, to the venerated owner. Samuel Gerald Oak was a name written on a cobblestone somewhere at the end of Victory Road. His name would be engraved in gold trim, and under there would be carved his pokemon team, and under that, his age when he became the seventh youngest trainer to become a first-ring champion, reserved solely for those who managed to beat all four members of the Elite Four. He had then gone on to college, earning his dual PhDs in poke-technology and pokebiology, graduating first in his class. He was long since past the pokebattling days which had turned his hair prematurely silver, and would be the only one working on the first day of Indigo League Pokemon Trainer Championships, when the Elite Four and Grand Champion gathered to test those eight-badge trainers who thought themselves hard enough to carve their name in the stones of the Plateau. He'd be the one working almost every other night of them, too.

But come Finals night, Professor Oak would be there with the rest of us, quietly sipping his beer along with the rest of us in the crowded bar, looking on wistfully as the newcomers were raised up or hammered down on that pixilated television screen. Had he ever dreamed of taking that final step, of stepping up to that stand that fifth time and calling Lance to the arena? For all his successes, was he just another man with regrets he'd never be able to banish?

I barely noticed myself passing my street by. I wasn't heading home. I was heading somewhere else.

At the edge of Pallet Town is a vast, long field of tall, green grass, bracketed by a forest of tall oaks. At the very end of it you can barely make out the beaten dirt path of Route 1. Every year on graduation day, trainers walked across that field and left, on their way to Viridian to float their challenges down Victory Falls and start their pokemon journey. It would have been safer and more prudent to clear the field and pave the rest of the way to Pallet, but then, tradition is rarely prudent. Besides, the field was swept for pokemon beforehand anyway – watching your graduates get eaten right out of the gate would not have set the best precedent.

I had to look again, I realized. I was no longer insensate with loss. I had to look down that field at my future and feel out my own urges, my own nature. Could I wait, or could I not? Logic didn't play into it. I had to know my own gut.

They were still taking down the decorations when I came down to the field. The post-graduation party had run its course, and now the adults were packing up.

A few students lingered about, reveling in the afterglow of feeling. Paper cups with the last dregs of the spiked punch were strewn about, on the sides, empty, crushed, discarded. I paused to let a few children pass without bowling me over, chased giggling by another who seemed absolutely convinced his toy pokeball held a Legendary and felt the need to scream it's power for all to hear. Two men lifted a cooler while another folded the table out from under it. The sheriff, satisfied that there was no chance of any drunken revelry starting up there, mounted his rapidash and rode off. I saw Professor Oak, talking quietly with a few men in white suits, who I hadn't noticed at the ceremony.

I went unnoticed as I shuffled under the farewell banner, being dismantled by two men atop ladders. I stopped at the edge of the tall grass, sharply mowed the previous morning in preparation. I could see the edge of the field just barely, if I squinted past the red rays of the dipping sun.

There was nothing. I felt nothing.

Frustrated, I waded out into the field, feeling something like desperation scratching at the door of my mind. There had to be an answer, and it had to be here – where else could I stand and see the roads backwards and forward to my dreams?

I was about twenty yards out into the tall grass when the sun fell at just the right angle to hit me straight in the eyes. Blinking rapidly, I pulled my hat down over my eyes.

Someone called my name. I turned around and saw Professor Oak, pushing frantically through the grass towards me, a tight expression of fear on his face. My own pulse jumped as a matter of habit. The last time I'd seen that kind of panic on his face had been when he had tried to domesticate a munchlax. I took a step back, and felt the ground squeal and move under me. Naturally, I jumped back.

Crouched there growling under the eves of the weeds and tall grass was a wild pikachu. I froze instantly. I wasn't afraid – only little kids are afraid. I was logically terrified.

To you, it may seem quite comical. Pikachu are among the weaker ranks of pokemon, defying the power-rarity correlation. They are barely over a foot tall on average, and store all their electricity in the pouches on their cheeks, which is not much. Most of their popularity comes from their place in pokemon contests and pageants.

This pikachu, however, was not small. Nearly two feet long, it hissed at me, curling it's tail protectively behind it's bulk. I knew then that I was very much in trouble. Normally, pikachu were docile, skittish pokemon who avoided human contact, but they were extremely protective of their tails, and for good reason. Pikachus used their tails as grounding rods for excess electricity which would otherwise make them ill. A pikachu with a broken tail was only doomed to death by slow self-electrocution unless treated.

And I had just stepped on it. Evidence of my crime was apparent in the muddy partial footprint on the length of the flat tail. This pikachu was well and pissed.

I raised my hands slowly and splayed my fingers in the same gesture I had used with Shiryuu.

"Piiiiiiiiiiiiii-!"

The pikachu's cheeks glowed briefly, and there was a sharp whip-crack of electricity, faster than I could catch, and the whole world went white. My body locked up tight and rigid before I collapsed, muscles flailing out of my control. It felt like someone was running a vacuum through my intestines. Then the whiteness dispersed into exploding starbursts of pain, leaving me numb with pain in the dirt. My senses returned sluggishly and incompletely, the world around me bobbing around in haziness as if I were experiencing everything through water.

I could hear the piercing hiss of the pikachu, the gulping static crash of an opening pokeball. I tasted the tang but not the copper of the blood in my mouth. My skin felt two layers too thick, brushing against the rough soil and itchy grass. Except for my hands, of course. My hands burned. Everything was blurry colors, like a water painting.

A large white-coated something knelt down over me, pressing fingers to my neck. What a stupid something. My neck wasn't hurt. It was my hands, my hands, see?

I tried to raise them, and only managed to flop them about like a landed magikarp.

Distantly I heard a familiar, strong old voice ask, "Can you speak, son?"

I responded with what I thought at the time was a very articulate sounding mumble-groan.

I was lifted by strong arms under the knees and neck. I heard Professor Oak tell them to put me in his truck, "he'll be all right, just some electrical burns and paralysis, I'll take him to the hospital" and "call his mother and tell her what happened" and various other quick commands he issued. One of the white-suited men wandered over and I fixated on his red lapel pin for no particularly reason at all while he talked. It was shaped like an 'R' and rimmed in gold. The Professor eventually shouted at him and started his pickup truck and then we were off.

I drifted in and out of consciousness on the way to the hospital. My snatches of memory are brief and at random: the Professor shifting gear two blocks away, the Professor unbuckling my seatbelt, the Professor over me as I was wheeled to my room. With him so close I noticed features about him that had escaped me before, lines on his face not evident from a distance. Professor Oak had never seemed it, but he was old. Old and tired. You could hardly believe he was in his late forties, with his all white hair and ancient eyes.

I eventually drifted fully to sleep before awaking completely about an hour later, my normal clothes somehow substituted magically for a hospital gown. The chirping of crickets and the dark outside informed me as to my time. I flexed my bandaged hands and noticed only a faint twinge of pain, indicating treatment.

I located my clothes and effects on the table beside me, and my mother on the chair in the hallway outside my door.

I'll not bore you with the pleasantries and anxious inquiries after my health. My mother was my mother, and she behaved at that time as all mothers would have, yours or mine or anyone's.

Well…perhaps not yours.

Don't pout, we both know you're a heartless bitch. And you, I don't know your mother, but judging by your occupation she was either absent or didn't know how to raise a son. Continuing on…

Continuing on, we eventually made our way home. Ashford was distraught, of course, and was signing distress signals with his hands every which way when I walked in.

Ashford had always been something of a spectacle in town. Mistermimes were not that common a choice of house pokemon, due to the stigma associated with Psychic-types and the mistermimes' being just plain unnerving. Some mistermimes were truly grotesque, with faces forever set in grimaced or crying expressions. Ashford was lucky. His exoskeletal features had hardened into a dignified, condescending expression that would not have looked that out of place on a snooty butler, brows raised and eyes lidded with a stiff upper lip. It was what my mother had named him for.

I quickly made an 'all clear' sign with three fingers on my left hand, and then showed him my hands, where only faint, white scar patches on my palms were any indication that the pikachu encounter had happened at all, thanks to the healing powers of chansey egg extract. The mistermime subsided and began cooking dinner.

I took my mind off what the hospital bill would be and put it on task to the real challenge of the night: saying goodbye to my mother.

I did it at the dinner table. Ashford put my plate in front of me and I didn't touch it for a while. My stomach was too full of indecision to bear pasta.

"Aren't you hungry?" My mother asked.

I told her I wasn't. Then I told her I was leaving tomorrow to become a pokemon trainer.

My mother put down her fork and wiped her mouth with her napkin and didn't speak for a while. "It's very dangerous." She said. After a pause, she added. "You saw what could happen today. The world isn't like Pallet. I know you think you know, but you don't."

I told her I did know, and that even if I didn't, I'd never find out if I didn't learn for myself.

"There's a thousand things that could go wrong." She said.

I told her that things are always going wrong everywhere, and that I didn't have to go any farther than upstairs to my half-reconstructed bedroom to realize that.

"I don't want to lose you." She said. Her voice quivered on the edge of tears.

I told her I didn't want to lose myself.

She pushed her plate away, stood up and moved to the kitchen, facing away from me. Understanding that dinner was very much over, Ashford took both of our unfinished plates and put the leftovers in the fridge. I could tell he intended to corner me later. I didn't get up. Tension and guilt rooted me to my spot, but conviction spurred me onwards.

My mother eventually composed herself well enough to speak evenly. "Where will you go?"

I told her I would go to Viridian first, where the exam was cheap and licensing was free, and then to issue my challenge at Victory Road. Then through the Viridian Forest to Pewter, and on to Cerulean. Or perhaps I would go a different route. It didn't really matter. I would find my way.

"Could you not wait? Until you can hitch a ride with someone to Viridian. I don't want you traveling alone out there."

I told her no. It would always be another thing, I said. Waiting for a ride, waiting for money. Something else would always be there to make me stay, I said, and I had a feeling she knew it. Tomorrow I would pick up my last paycheck from Professor Oak and then I would leave, without exception.

I could see my mother's heart break at my harsh declaration, but I refused to look away as she cried. I had already foreseen this outcome, and I would bear the consequences of my decision without balking. I waited.

My mother retreated to her room after a short while. I sensed she would not return. My appetite returned after an hour of pacing around the house restlessly and prepping for my departure, so I 'waved my plate and finished it. Then I went to bed.

-(=0=)-

I woke up the next day to the sound of my door opening. I rose blearily from my bed, addressing Ashford, who had just then slipped into my room. I had not slept well, so I wished the pokemon, verbally, a good morning.

In response, the mistermime walloped me across the face.

Now, I know what you are thinking. A domestic pokemon, attacking a human? Outrageous. But despite the stinging pain, I felt embarrassed, rather than shocked or enraged. I was well used to this.

It was our game, you see. I hadn't picked up his signs just from watching him – that would have been ridiculous. Ashford had taken it upon himself from a very young age to teach me his signs, to the point where nowadays, he took rather unkindly to us doing otherwise. He had never struck me around my mother, of course, and he had never hit me with such force as to leave a bruise. It had always been a game. Perhaps the price for losing was a bit high, but I was of the no-pain-no-gain school of thought.

I could never bear to lose, even then. I felt the urge to win as I lived and breathed. I corrected my motion, making the signs for 'awake' and 'morning', adding a greeting at the end. Ashford backed away from the bed as I rose.

He raised both his hands, palms flat. I wasn't in any mood to play. I made to move around him. He juked left in front of me.

I raised one eyebrow and tried the other side. No dice.

Ashford wiggled his fingers. Apparently he wasn't going to let me leave until I agreed to play. Bemused, I took up his stance and posture. I'd long outgrown the mirror game, but it seemed that my leaving had triggered some sort of nostalgic impulse.

The mirror game was simple. I had to copy his movements for as long as I could. It sounded easy, but if I lagged behind him to long, he would give me one across the face, two for flinching. He grew wilder and more complex as I progressed in skill. He always let me off if I managed to keep it up a good amount of time. I'd gotten good enough that I could almost sense what was coming, which was the point where he had stopped offering to play and concentrated on teaching signs.

Ashford started out fast right out of the gate, this time, twisting and curling his fingers into knots. He wasn't joking around. I took the same position and he instantly contorted into another one, with me right on his heel. He hopped on one foot and I was there in a blink. A one-legged no-arm squat. Holding one foot behind me and touching the ground. I probably could teach yoga.

Ashford only escalated further. One armed pushups. A german suplex. At one point he did a cartwheel in place. Five minutes of intense movement later, he raised one hand from his handstand and we both gave each other the 'all clear' sign. I was careful to follow just a bit farther behind on that one – he'd tricked me before.

I wiped the sweat from my brow on my pajama sleeve and watched Ashford's fingers curl inwards and outwards in uncertain movements, looking around me, at the floor, at the half-finished plaster of the ceiling.

The mistermime tapped himself on the temple with two fingers. Remember, he said. He reached out and grabbed one of my hands, and tapped my fingers on his temple. Remember him.

I was so touched I couldn't have spoken even had I wanted to. Sadness and regret crept into me without warning. I smiled and made a series of signs; 'future', and 'remember', and 'cherish'.

Funnily, this seemed to piss the clown off. Ashford made a sign of dismissal and repeated the 'remember' sign, this time with 'past' and enthusiastic miming of our calisthenics added in.

I couldn't help but laugh. Remember what I taught you. Of course. Ashford had never been the sentimental type. I made a 'don't worry' sign and threw in a few random obscure sign combos like 'I'm hungry but not for that' and 'six months, three days and five hours previously' and 'I'm being chased by a large angry arcanine and believe we should run now'.

The mistermime raised his hands in surrender and shuffled to the side, allowing me to pass. I stopped to grab a few apples in the kitchen for the road and left.

Knowing this would be the last time I set eyes on my, if not beloved, then fondly remembered hometown, I took my time walking to the ranch. I made sure to bid good morning to the few people I knew personally – the tailor at his loom, who repaired my ranch ravaged clothes; the blacksmith and carpenter in their shops, who I had seen frequently in the last few days regarding the reconstruction of our house; the librarian in her archives, where I had spent many a work-free afternoon. The grocer. The barman. So many small, quiet relationships, and I could not dare miss a one.

It made me late for my shift, but considering I had no intention of working it anyway, the point was rather moot. This was important. I wanted to leave with no regrets.

I arrived at the Professor's ranch a full hour after my normal time, fifty minutes after I would have finished being briefed by him with the other hands, twenty minutes after I would have been finished grooming the new litter of the alpha arcanine bitch, a job none of the ranch but I had volunteered for. It would be around this time I would probably start with the industrial grade rock polish on the rhyperior's hide.

One of the ranch hands directed me to the Professor's current location. It was eerie, making my way through the whitewashed halls of the main lab complex for the last time. The disinfectant tang in the air had always reminded me queasily of a hospital.

The lab assistants and scientists I passed paid me no attention, focused as they were on their own tasks; the Professor always drove them to their limits, breaking many dreams of a position on the Pokemon Professor's research team being anything cushy. Indeed, I had to step around a few whom I was certain would have bowled me over had I not moved. There was a solemn, dignified professionalism to the place I would not recognize or appreciate for a long time, until I was long past that day and place.

The Pokemon Professor's office was as understated as his personality, humble and secreted off on the back edge of the lab. The drab décor of the office was legendary in its own respect, renowned for having driven itself right out of all documentaries set at the Oak ranch through sheer dullness. I had always secretly admired it. Professor Oak's office, in my eyes, seemed exactly suited to its purpose, from the small size to the packed steel bookcases to the digital clock hung directly over the Professor's head, so that visitors would not have to look away impolitely if they were in a hurry. The only thing resembling a personal feature was a tall, narrow window in the back of room, which looked out upon the closest pokemon enclosures to the ranch. Decorations were for the home, I thought. Mixing the two only invited laxness and unprofessionalism.

The Professor answered as promptly as if he had been expecting me when I knocked on his door. "Come in, Gary." His muffled voice came through the door. I hesitated one extra second before entering.

The Professor seemed timeless as ever when I saw him, no trace of the previous day's events showing on his face. I'd never seen him outside of a polo shirt and slacks under the traditional white coat until graduation day, when he had deigned to don a suit for his grandson's ceremony. Even the slight variation of his coat hanging on the back of his seat seemed jarring in my charged mood. I realized I had never seen his arms beyond the wrists. His wrinkled elbows stretched taut, tan leather over a worn drum, as he sat up. His eyes widened marginally.

"Red," He referred to me by my birth name – he always did – but for the sake of my privacy I'll simply substitute. His voice was mild and measured. "I wasn't expecting you. When you missed roll call I assumed you had taken a mental health day. What can I do for you?"

I told him I was leaving, and that I was there to pick up my last paycheck. I didn't bother to mince words or add an apology for the suddenness – for all his mildness, the Professor could not abide useless chatter. I did add a 'sir', though. It was a term of respect, and I respected no one as I did this man.

Professor Oak took this in stride, as he did everything; seldom did things surprise as experienced a pokemon trainer as him. I expected a swift write-off of my check, and perhaps a cursory inquiry if he was feeling inquisitive that day. I got something else. The Professor rose from his chair, collecting his coat under one arm.

"Walk with me." He told me, and I did. It was impossible to not make a habit of obeying the Professor's orders after spending as much time as I had under him.

We walked through the halls of the complex. Professor Oak took a moment to mentally conceptualize his speech and think as we strolled, seemingly without destination. He began talking as we turned a corner.

"You were never like the others, Red, I hope you know. It isn't just your schoolwork, where even I admit you rival Gary, or your work here, where I've never seen steadier hands, no, not those. Those are just matters of diligence: I've seen the same in many others, though perhaps not to your degree."

White coats everywhere. Scientists and security alike, bowing to a portly elder man in picnic attire. I watched scientists behind us digging for pass-cards to cross the security checkpoint the Professor had simply walked right on through, waving League-appointed guards away from me like pesky cobwebs.

"It's the mind that drives them, your mind. To tell you the truth, Red, I've had my eye on you for a while – longer than you might believe. You're an anomaly. What is it you intend to do, out there? I refuse to believe that a will like yours exists without an ambition to feed it. What is your ambition?"

We had come to an empty laboratory, filled with great humming supercomputers and blinking machines. It had the feel of an inner sanctum, a theory lent credit from the card and code the Professor had finally been forced to produce to enter. Perhaps it was imagination, but I felt I could almost feel the scientific progress happening as I stood there among the machines, the pokemon potential being explored a bit further with every waking second.

I wanted to become a pokemon trainer, I told him.

The Professor snorted. "That is less an ambition than a milestone. It seems like every other housewife has a trainer's license these days. No. There has to be something more."

I asked him why he didn't go ahead and tell me, if he was so certain of me and the worthlessness of my answer. Perhaps my response was out of line, but Professor Oak had always been a personal hero of mine, and hearing him discard my dream stung more than I was willing to admit, despite his lavish praise of me beforehand. I was itching to leave.

The Professor's eyebrows rose into his hairline before settling, as he sighed and leaned back on the edge of an exam table. An expression which I would have described as embarrassed, had it been any other person, crossed his face.

"I seem to have misrepresented myself. I did not invite you here to belittle you, Red, quite the contrary. I want to offer you a job, in my laboratory."

I was rather shocked, as you might imagine. People had to study for years to qualify for a research grant in any official pokemon lab. Only the crème de la crème ever managed to attract the notice of the Pokemon Professor of their region, and that was only after years of work in the field. To be granted a fellowship without holding a degree of some kind would be completely unprecedented, but then, it was part of the Pokemon Professor's job to set new precedents. And I knew Professor Oak. He wouldn't make such an offer as a jape. You'd have to be crazy to say no.

No, I said.

It was obviously an answer he was not used to, from his frown. But like a good scientist, he took the new data and began again.

"You're set on becoming a trainer, then. Is it some gym that's caught your attention? I know it's not the rangers, or the navy or police or militia, otherwise you'd have simply taken a scholarship. I've never pegged you for the contest type, but are you looking at pokemon coordination?" The Professor continued on, seeking answers in my blank declaration. "I simply wish to understand your plans."

I'm secure enough now to admit that I was looking for approval when I explained my plans to Professor Oak. I felt a growing unease as I watched his face wrinkle up in disapproval.

"You're willing to start out with no pokemon or pokedex?" He asked quietly, a note of disbelief entering his voice. He had good reason. Trying to become a trainer without a trained starter pokemon was a risky gambit at best – I would have to catch a feral and train it, or net a pokemon whose sale could afford me a starter, a dangerous business which would require me to venture out into the wilds without a pokemon to defend me. I was confident in my ability, though. I had spent my entire childhood romping around the woods of Pallet, and I'd always scored highest in the hunting and tracking exercises in school.

I said as much and the Professor lapsed into silent but furious thought. He knuckled his chin and shook his head.

"No. No, that won't do at all." Professor Oak turned to his desk and rattled one of the drawers open. "I have a new job for you, Red, one I think you _will_ take."

He withdrew a sleek new pokedex, candy red paint gleaming under the harsh lights of the lab. It wasn't any model I recognized.

"Johto just released their new, second generation pokedex a couple months ago, you'll recall." The Professor said. I nodded. He waved the pokedex in his hand. "Well, it's been getting rave reviews, so the Kanto poketechnological research board starting putting pressure on me to match them, 'in the interest of friendly regional competition', or so they say." He shrugged. "Between you and me, half the board members are separatists, so I'm sure there's some sort of political my-region-is-better-than-your-region thing going on. Nevertheless, I decided to comply and get it over with, so here it is: the second generation Kanto pokemon encyclopedic index, complete with unlimited messaging and a thumb pad and mini-games and all the other do-hickies that have the Johtoan trainers drooling."

The Professor set it on the table, and pushed it towards me.

"The problem is, it hasn't been beta-tested yet. I'm fairly sure I've worked out the bugs, but it never hurts to be careful. I'd like you to take it and write up a review on it." His face then split into the smile which had made him the favorite guest at the schoolhouse. "I wouldn't ask you to do it for free, though. How does an advance copy and a fee waiver for your exam and starter sound?"

I couldn't speak. It was perfect. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. And I had to turn it down.

What?

Of course you can't understand. You've never been poor. When you live without means, there are times when your pride is everything you have. I had never accepted charity before and I couldn't start there. To take it, I believed, would be to cripple everything my journey stood for.

Thankfully, I was prevented at that time from making the biggest mistake of my life by none other than my rival, sauntering in right at that moment.

I stared. There was a certain air about Blue then, a weight to his stride that I could hardly believe he had picked up in just a day of being a trainer. He looked radiant, alive, free. It was that last part more than anything that made his next arguments more compelling.

"Yow, that's one helluva deal, Red. You should try not being a dumbass and taking it." Blue drawled. His speech had grown far more informal since his youth, from long afternoons spent shooting the breeze with the officers and retirees of the militia and rangers. His arms were tucked snugly into his jacket, a parcel wedged in the space between his arm and side. Blue's eevee, a rare starter it had no doubt taken many of the Pokemon Professor's strings to get, trailed behind him obediently. As ever, he looked as if he had stepped right off of a runway. "I mean, it's not like he's just givin' it to ya. I got one too, and you better believe he'll rip me a new one if it gets released and it turns out you can't load new ringtones or some stupid crud like that."

"Hello, Gary." The Professor replied, adding very dryly. "Good afternoon to you too."

"'Sup gramps. Here's your package or whatever." Blue tossed the parcel on a gurney, where it landed with a clang. Professor Oak winced. Blue gave me a head nod. "Gramps told me about the little shock you had, so I stopped by your house to call you out for getting stomped by a yellow rat. Imagine my surprise when I hear about this half-baked Viridian baloney. I mean, yeesh, I've got a headstart, a sweet pokemon and dashing good looks. How do you expect to catch up with just a license? You gonna save up for a pokedex and catch and train a feral at the same? Don't take the piss, I'll be halfway through the league by then!"

"Gary intends to take on the Kanto gym circuit. He's already taken up with a mentor." His grandfather explained. There was no overt pride in his tone, but the fact that the Professor cared to mention it at all was telling in itself. "He says he intends to challenge the Elite Four."

"Hell yeah I do. Gonna be the Grand Champion, man, Hall of Fame." Blue smirked. "Howdja like to see me every time you open your wallet, and think, 'man, I wish I was cool enough to have taken that deal when I was a kid so I could have the honor of being the first to receive the champ's wisdom'?" Blue's expression shifted, quicksilver, into a scowl. "You don't wanna be that guy, Red. Take the job."

I would like to say I spent a long time wrestling my conflicting desires, my pride and my dream, but any time I spent deliberating was in delusion. My mind had made itself up as soon as Blue had walked into that room like the king of the world and everyone in it. Arrogant or ambitious, right or not, I wanted that, wanted it bad, and something more besides. Anything that brought me closer to that goal I would take, and damn the price.

I hesitated several seconds, and silently picked up the pokedex. A big shit-eating grin spread itself across Blue's face, and he slapped me on the back. "That's the spirit, Red! Carpe diem, do or die, fu- ah," He glanced pointedly at his grandfather. "-screw the consequences. Who wants to live forever?"

"Quite." The Professor agreed sarcastically, a wry smile twisting his lips. "I'll have the exam brought in."

"What? Aw man, are you kidding? That dinky thing?" Blue complained, obviously unwilling to let paperwork spoil the mood. "Come on, gramps, we both know the test's a joke. Forget eleven, I coulda passed it when I was two. You really gonna waste his time with that toilet paper?"

Professor Oak looked about ready to snap, so I quickly intervened, assuring him that I was happy to take the exam.

"Thank you, Red. It's nice to see that there are some who appreciate the value of procedure."

After an intercom message and short wait, an assistant brought a copy of the Pallet Town PTCE, or Pokemon Trainer Certification Examination, into the lab. She was a slim, flighty thing with round glasses and secretary heels, and Blue refused to let her out of the room without charming her into a full stutter. She fled before he could move in for the kill, however. The Professor gave Blue the evil eye for the rest of the visit.

It took me around half an hour to finish the exam. I never had to glance more than once at a multiple choice question, and the long answers were laughable. It focused more on avoiding pokemon than training them. I would have finished sooner had Blue not seen fit to add commentary every time I turned a page; apparently he had memorized the exam.

"Oh, page three? Check out question twenty-three, you'll laugh."

"Hurry up and flip, man, there's a typo on question forty-five you gotta see."

"Oh, you've gotten to the long answers, good. Yo Red, buddy, look at number seven. 'At what time would be the best time to attack a snorlax'? Anyone who asks that question has never met a snorlax, just sayin'."

I made to hand the exam to Professor Oak when I was finished, but Blue quickly hopped up and intercepted it before I could, snatching it and flipping through it like an impatient child. The Professor pinched his nose and sighed in exasperation.

"Right, right, right, right," Blue declared, in a tone of intense boredom. "Right, right, one wrong, two wrong – jeezus, Red, was the chapter on pokemon law missing in your book or what? – right, right, right and right. Long answers are long, so probably right too, or at least some believable sophist bull." He relinquished the packet to his grandfather, taking a square of gum out of his pocket and popping it into his mouth. "Are we really acting like he was ever gonna fail? Is that a thing now?"

The Professor took it and began paging through it at nearly the same speed. Both Oaks' minds functioned at similar breakneck speeds. He lectured as he read. "No, Gary, there is simply a thing called 'not counting your eggs before they-'" A pause. "I don't see any wrong here, Gary, what exactly were you talking about?"

"I counted the anabolic pokesteroids question wrong because it is. All outlawing them has done is drive them into the criminal community. You know how many pokemon have died because of dirty-mixed rare candy? You know how much money Kanto could make by legalizing and taxing them?" Blue shrugged. "I mean, it's not like they're gonna stop using. Half the military is popping candy. All you gotta do is reinstate random League drug tests so competitions stay clean, and boom. You kill criminal revenue across the board, lower drug crime and fatality rates, and get a whole new industry all in one move."

"Tests have shown that pokesteroid-using pokemon are almost impossible to integrate back into the wild." The Professor argued. "That's not even talking about the addiction problems."

"Uh, hello? Pure candy addictions are always psychological. The only real addictions come out of candy mixed with narcotics, which wouldn't even be allowed to happen if rare candy were regulated-!"

Sensing the signs of a long argument, I quick cut in to ask how I did. The Professor blinked and looked again at my exam before setting it down.

"A perfect score, as I suspected. Just like my grandson here would have gotten had he not been too busy carrying the torch for junkie legislation."

Blue scowled. "The integration argument isn't even a relevant point. Who except the most extreme monster-huggers ever even release pokemon? Is expansion not a goal anymore? Are we forgetting that wild pokemon are exactly what created the Dark Continents in the first place?"

I quickly asked when I was going to get my starter. Professor Oak took his stern glare off of Blue and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Unfortunately, Red, I only ordered the three starters billed for graduation, and of course Blacky here." Blue's eevee, refusing to be ignored, had leapt up onto the table next to the Pokemon Professor. He scratched it under its chin. I noticed the markings of a female on the eevee's coat and body, making the pokemon even rarer than I had initially thought. "Apart from the pikachu caught yesterday, I have no starter level pokemon on the ranch. I can put in an order today, but it will be a few days until it arrives."

"That sucks, buddy. I was hoping for a little battle before I left." Blue stuck his hands in his pockets. "Ah well. Maybe your mom can tolerate you for a few more days, eh? Be seeing you." He whistled sharply at Blacky, who leapt down from the table to settle at his feet.

Blue was leaving? I made this a question.

Blue rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well, yeah. I only stopped back by to drop off gramps' package and take a breather. Bro tip, Red: the trick when battling the gyms is to take it slow. More than half the losers you hear flaming out on the news are ones who tried to blitz the circuit, skipping the routes by teleport and sticking only to trainer battles and official matches, but that never works. You can't win every battle on type advantage. You gotta have enough experience." He crossed his arms. "I'm gonna head through Viridian Forest. It'll be a good place to train Blacky and this new pidgey I caught." Just then, I noticed the extra pokeball hanging on his magnetic belt clip. He smiled slyly. "Maybe if you hurry you'll be able to catch me in Pewter. Maybe."

Blue gave me the biggest, smarmiest, fakest thumbs up in the history of insincerity and turned to leave.

That was when I turned to Professor Oak and told him I'd take the pikachu. Call it a competitive streak, or just me being tired of Blue looking down on me. I had no idea at the time of what that pikachu would come to mean to me. Right then, I just flatly refused to let Blue have the last word.

It certainly served that purpose. Blue missed a step and looked at me dumbly, like I had just issued a declaration in imperial Japanese. Professor Oak wrung his hands worriedly.

"Are you sure, Red? I haven't had any chance at all to domesticate it. It's last memory is likely of your attack. I'm perfectly willing to put a rush order on that starter order if it's speed you're worried about. I can't in good conscience issue it to you feral."

There was no backing down, now. The idea had rooted itself in my mind. I would beat Blue, all right; I'd even do with a feral starter. I told him I was sure, and that I'd take the money for the starter if I was lifting such a nuisance as he claimed off his hands.

Blue cackled. "Aw man, gramps, Red's callin' you out!"

"Be quiet, Gary!" The Professor snapped, patience finally at an end. He softened his tone as he spoke to me. "Red, are you sure you are not acting rashly?" I could see the same weariness I had yesterday in him now, in his eyes and slumped back and in the very rise and fall of his chest. He thought I was making a foolish, hot-blooded mistake.

But when I looked back at Blue, I saw something else entirely. There was a difference in the way he looked at me, an unspoken challenge in the way he stood upright, hands at his side, face shining in anticipation. Before, I had been the he'd surpassed and left behind. Now, with this bold action, I was his rival reborn, equal, respected, to be wary of, to be feared.

At that time, in that place, I would have scaled the very peak of Mt. Silver to have that, bare-handed and bloody-faced.

I asked the Professor how quickly he could have the pikachu brought here.

Blue smiled from ear to ear. Professor Oak became sullen, spiteful, almost cold. "So you are not to be dissuaded. Fine. I will have the pikachu fetched and the money transferred, and on your shoulders fall any consequences. I must go: I have had well enough dealings with children today."

Not an hour ago, such harsh declamation would have cowed me – now, it was a gnat's discontented buzzing. I had gained much more than I had lost in that discourse, I felt.

-(=0=)-

I stopped by home, of course. How could I not?

The two of you may not understand, but you've never had parents, not the real kind, who you knew loved you; knew their love like gravity and running water and time itself; a love that couldn't be changed by any force or being.

I will tell you nothing of that time, not one word of those spoken nor even one feeling of those many that were shared. I can no more describe to you the experience of leaving a parent than I can sing colors to a man born blind and deaf. Even if I could I would not; watching you rot from your ignorance is a much more pleasing sight.

Let it suffice that I was back on the street not an undue time later, the great, warm cloak of home and childhood ripped from my shoulders. Sadly, the sun was nowhere near setting, sitting almost directly overhead, ruining any chances of a dramatic exit.

I walked to the edge of the field. I stepped in without hesitation. It was a short minute to the other side, a period during which I seemed to become hypersensitive to my surroundings. I could hear every sweeping oak tree, whispering wordlessly in the wind. I could feel the grass and weeds through my triple-layered travel jeans, taste the dry Kanto summer. I could smell my teen spirit departing.

My first foot hit the dust of Route 1, and then the second. The tiny dust clouds they kicked up seemed to drift on forever.

I looked back to Pallet Town, rising above the forest line, and saw my past laid out in great disgrace and greater glory.

I looked forward and saw eternity.

-(=0=)-

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry #133 (J. # 184): Eevee_

_Basic Characteristics: Normal-type, quadrupedal mammal, avg. height 1'00, avg. weight 14.3lbs._

_Description: Small warm-blooded pokemon, sharing the characteristics of many living and extinct animals. Body covered in thick coat of fur, hardened with the creature's saliva. Large white mane of fur around neck, to protect throat and for use in mating displays. Tall, long ears which can detect sounds at great distances, gauge clearance in a manner similar to whiskers and move with great dexterity to indicate mood. Eyes large and irises brown. Nose kept wet with mucus to prevent drying._

_Nickname(s): The Evolution Pokemon, The Evolutionary Pokemon, The Environmental Pokemon, The Common Pokemon._

_"…Despite their nickname, eevee are far from a common pokemon; indeed, they are quite difficult to procure due to their popularity in contests. They are also highly coveted as research subjects because of their hyperactive _glans mutatio_: eevee have the largest number of evolutions ever recorded in pokemon history, for the most esoteric reasons, currently recorded at seven. Some of these evolutions occur from ordinary stressors, such as elemental stones, but two evolutions, umbreon and espeon, are dependent on the eevee's nocturnal or diurnal tendencies, and two others only seem to occur near two noted landmarks, those being the Moss Rock in Eterna Forest and the Ice Rock on Route 217, both in Sinnoh. These phenomena, of course, is claimed by Sinnoans to be due to the pokegod Arceus' blessing upon both stones which, of course, incited the followers of the Mew cult to once again decry said divine denomination…"_

-(=0=)-

1) Tailor's loom: Due to certain pokemons' known hatred of industrial plants and other places of manufacturing, mass-production and pollution, settlements without a city wall or strong militia tend to regulate such practices to the smallest necessary degree for civilized living. This has lead to a large revival in skilled craft, often pokemon-aided. Pallet is such a settlement, and the Pallet tailor is such a craftsman.

2) Blacksmith: See tailor.

3) Documentaries: Since recording technology has been legalized for reproduction, cinema and moving pictures have experienced an explosion in interest. Some artists refer to it as the Video Renaissance. Many educational films have been made for school use, including biographies on important figures, a group in which the de facto leaders of the scientific pokemon world are most definitely included. In these films, Professor Oak has received little interest or coverage due to his unexciting interview personality and succint speech, and was given no extra time on screen. He is, however, mentioned derogatorily in several documentaries by Professor Elm.

4) Pokemon coordination: The official name for the occupation raising of pokemon to compete in pokemon contests. Several less formal and more pejorative ones include 'pokefan', 'putting makeup on monsters and parading them around', and 'pokefaggotry'.

5) Hunting and tracking exercises: With the imminent danger of attack from monsters always growing higher as settlements become larger and more technologically advanced, lessons in woodcraft and wild navigation quickly became mandatory in League certified schools. These lessons include the evasion and pursuit of pokemon, the trapping of mundane animals, finding shelter and identifying signs to lead back to humanity.

6) Dark Continents: The plural name for the large, pokemon-overrun land masses across the western sea. Records from before pokemon indicate they used to be divided into human countries, from which some close-knit communities can trace their ancestry and ethnicity. No reported contact has been made with any human civilization beyond our own. Excursions into Dark Asia, the nearest Dark Continent, are forbidden by all regions and are classified as high treason by all Pokemon Leagues. The only information obtained is done so by highly trained military teams who cross the sea infrequently to scout the land, which has become even more infrequent as of late due to low return rates.


	3. 2: Traditions and Lenience

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Chapter Two

Tradition and Lenience

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_"Fall seven times and stand up eight."_

_-Ancient Japanese proverb, preserved through oral tradition in traditionalist homes_

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They searched his effects, of course. His pokeballs were not among them. He had come alone.

His pokedex flushed itself when they released their porygon, disappearing to some unknown backup drive.

His journal was written in unintelligible numeric code, which they had no hope of decrypting without the cipher and key.

The many inner pockets of his coat had been filled with sundries. Worthless, meaningless miscellanea.

A ballpoint pen, ink burst. One of them mussed their hands and scowled. They set that aside.

A coin-purse and wallet, complete with trainer ID and a few hundred idols. The ID listed only his nickname. Frustrated, they set these aside as well.

A bag of catnip. A pressed flower. A wooden grave talisman. A sheriff's star. A piece of obsidian glass.

Curios. Souvenirs. The modest collection of a quiet boy. It told them nothing. Moreover, it unsettled them.

How could a boy have done so much?

-(=0=)-

To tell you Pikachu and I had a rocky start would be something of an understatement…what?

A nickname? No, I could never. I can't explain why personally, but you've heard of the naming threshold, of course. You have probably even discussed it on hand. Getting a pokemon to respond to a nickname is a trial every trainer must overcome, because they never really think of themselves as that name. Even Psychic-types admit that they refer to themselves as 'Kadabra' or 'Xatu', and to others of their species as the same, without any confusion. It's actually the reason why trainers are required to name their pokemon, on official record at least; in the middle of a battle between two pokemon of the same species, calling them by their pokemon name has been known to distract both pokemon, rather than your own, which falls under heckling which is of course illegal.

I suppose one reason is that I've never had that problem with communication. I turn to look to my pokemon at the same time they turn to look at me. It's eerie, sometimes. I suppose it has to do-

Oh. I see what you're doing. No. The story will continue in its natural order, no skipping about, though I applaud your subtlety. I wouldn't have expected it from you, sir.

The first stage of domestication is domination, showing the pokemon you have control. The degree of force needed varies with each pokemon.

I was one day into my journey, halfway to Viridian City. Route 1, by merit of being the link between one of the most famous cities in Kanto and the ranch of its Pokemon Professor, had received exorbitant aid from the regional coffers.

This had gone into increased ranger patrols, better roads and the halfway house where I had stayed the previous night. It was lavish, so not free, but trainers received discounts and it was better than sleeping outside and trusting luck to save me from a rabid raticate gnawing my feet off.

One attractive feature of the halfway house was the ranger barracks right next to it. Sleepy Routes like 1 were nicknamed 'ranger nests', and typically were staffed with young 'baby bird' ranger trainees learning the ropes and older rangers teaching them while waiting to pick up their 'nest egg' pensions. Coincidentally, both types were characteristically bored out of their skulls. You couldn't live in this age without knowing a story about the infamous pranks they played to amuse themselves. The plausibility of the few stories I knew was suspect, but the rangers I met there were indeed as bored as legend, and more than happy to chase away the doldrums helping a rookie trainer with his feral starter.

It was a hot, sticky day. We'd found a sequestered copse away from the barracks, so as to minimize damage. Three rangers had offered their assistance: A captain in his mid-fifties, with a twangy drawl that spoke of many rural posts, his charge, a young man not much older than me, despite his bulging muscles, and the medic, a silver-haired woman with a slender frame and disapproving lips pinched tight enough to squeeze a nail in two.

The older ranger held my pokeball in hand. Nearby, the grinning trainee had released his poliwhirl, which was curling and uncurling its leathery white fingers a few feet away. The barracks medic was watching some ways back, arms crossed.

"Alright, kid, so whatchu got here?" The veteran ranger asked. I told him. He frowned. "A pikachu? Ain't they mild as Moomoo milk most times? You didn't go and pull its tail, didja?"

I admitted that I may have stepped on it, just a little bit.

He whooped a laugh. "Whoo! This rat's gonna be_ pipin'_ mad, then! Private, switch to the monkey, you don't want that poliwhirl getting fried by a stray bolt."

The trainee obliged, grinning wider, recalling his poliwhirl and releasing a primeape, who landed in a hairy, pig-nosed fury, beating the ground with its ham-like fists. The trainee grabbed its ear and twisted, barking a short rebuke. The primeape snarled, and the trainer knelt and spoke in its ear, turning it towards me. I quickly avoided eye contact. Primeapes were the only pokemon worse than Dragon-types, in that regard. It bayed, straining to be released.

"All right now, rook, here's how it's gonna go: I'll release your pikachu, and you go ahead and pin it. You got some insulation?"

I pulled out a pair of rubber yellow dish gloves and tugged them on pointedly.

"That'll do. Grab it by the cheek-spots. Why does he want to do that, private?"

The trainee piped up, straining to be heard above his primeape's snarling. "The electrical sacs, captain!"

The veteran nodded. "That's right. Pikachu store their charge in their cheek sacs, so you grab on and let it shoot its payload. Once it's all gone, that pikachu's just a big yella' rat. You ready?"

I checked my gloves and said yes.

The ranger thumbed the button. The rim of the pokemon sprang open, and red pokepower exploded outwards with a gulping, whiny blast. As soon as the pikachu had reconstituted itself, I leapt.

I was lucky. The pikachu was disoriented, this being the first time it had been released. Ignoring the trainee's gleeful hooting and the frothing of the primeape, I lunged forward and seized it by the fat of its cheeks. I smiled for a fraction of a second, thinking I had decisively managed the situation. Oh, naivety.

The pikachu, rather than try to jerk away, dug all four of its sharp claws into my vest, squeaking a terrible war-cry. I saw the two cheeks light up and felt the lightning escape, heating the gloves as the bolts cracked and popped like giant popcorn kernels.

You wouldn't think such a small creature would hold so much voltage (or fury), but the pikachu bucked and twisted like a spooked ponyta at a rodeo. The temperature of the rubber rose to almost painful degrees. My vest would have been shredded had it not been made out of twice strong flaffy wool. As it was, I got raked several times, drew a long, nearly bloody cut under my chin and developed a much deeper respect for rodents, staring into the pikachu's slobbering maw as it expended its body's electricity against me.

As soon as the torrent ceased, I dropped the rat pokemon like a hot potato, yanking the partially melted gloves off of my hands.

"Herc, subdue him!" The private barked, releasing his primeape.

The pikachu landed like a coiled spring, leaping away, but the primeape tackled it midair. The yellow rodent resumed his struggle, but the fighting pokemon pinned him in seconds and let out one long, enraged scream in the pikachu's face. It went wide eyed and still. I could see his chest beating frantically, eyes rolling in fear.

The captain tossed me my pokeball. "Boy, return that thing before it has a heart attack."

I thumbed the return switch along the rim, and the pokeball's titanium release button twisted open in the middle, revealing a small lens. A red laser lanced out and hit my pikachu's left ear, rapidly twitching. The laser activated the biological marker which the pokeball had written into the pikachu's genes upon capture, causing corresponding neuro-chemical pathways to fire, prompting the entire body to break apart at a subatomic level. In less than a second, the pokemon had disintegrated into a mass of red pokepower energy, which traveled along the path of the laser, devouring it, until it was inside; at this point, the titanium lens cover slid back in place, and the tiny self-wiping computer saved the previous physiological state of the pikachu and froze the chaotic pokepower into stasis, awaiting the next release.

The private did the same for his Herc, who had settled back on his haunches after the pikachu disappeared to let his testosterone and adrenaline fueled rage smooth out into general simian hyperactivity, hooting and shitting and doodling in the dirt. The captain's nose wrinkled. "You see that gets cleaned up, private, I don't want some house guest steppin' innit."

"Yes sir," The private replied, running off after the medic to the barracks to retrieve his poop scoop. The captain turned towards me and wiped his forehead absently, giving me a once-over for injuries.

"You all right, son?" I assured him I was. He nodded. "Well, you know the next step, I hope. Put him in a closed room and see that he calms down." A grin. "And give yourself a pat on the back, while you're at it. In all my years, that's got to be the biggest, meanest pikachu I've ever seen."

I took the pokeball back to my room and prepared it. I locked the doors and windows, and closed the shades. I put on one of my long-sleeved shirts, and made a mental note to buy gloves when the opportunity presented itself: I seemed to be damaging my hands a lot recently. I placed my more delicate possessions in the closet and closed it too. Then I let the pikachu out.

He appeared on his back, as he had been returned. The rat quickly righted itself, huddling in on itself, shivering with pupils wide as saucers. I reflected on the fact that this was the first time the animal had ever been inside a human dwelling. What smells and sights and sounds seemed normal to me – the soap and detergent, the ambient light, and distant sound of a vacuum down the hall – would be harsh and strange to the feral beast.

My very first twitch got the pokemon's attention. Moving slowly, I lowered myself down to his eye level, decreasing the threat I posed. I then effected my lowest bass tones, knowing that lower frequencies seemed more comforting on a primal level, to inform him verbally that everything was all right, throwing the sign for 'all clear' as an afterthought.

For a brief, pregnant moment the pikachu didn't respond at all. Afterwards, I would wish he hadn't at all.

Because then, he began to pee.

It took me a second to deduce the origin and meaning of the gushing sound, which made me leap up and back with an exclamation. I will admit I had, in my dismay, completely forgotten a cardinal rule when dealing with spooked pokemon: do not excite them. Especially when they are already urinating.

The pikachu, of course, took off immediately, bolting across the room. I, _of course_, had no choice but to pursue, as that was my room and everything was going completely wrong and I was regretting not paying more attention to the biology of pikachu in my study late last night because I was fairly sure that there was no way one little rat could possibly hold this much _pee_.

It took me the better part of a frenzied, shouting minute to finally corner the pikachu and ball it, by which time my pokemon and I had trashed the room, I had attracted the cleaning_ and_ kitchen staff, and I had managed to get liberally sprinkled in rat piss. It was quite a scene the house manager walked into when he was eventually notified, and I do not blame him one whit for ordering me to collect my things and leave immediately.

It was in that exact state I made the rest of my trip to Viridian City, which was uneventful except for a few beedrill I saw a ranger drive off the Route in the distance and the passing of a car, which were rare enough even without the shiny paint job and shaded windows I spotted.

And it was in that exact state that I arrived at Viridian City: of marginally better mood, much wearier legs, determinedly optimistic and covered in rodent urine.

-(=0=)-

The sun had passed into the latter half of the sky when I finally took my place in line at the Viridian City security checkpoint. The walls of Viridian loomed high up above us, casting us tired travelers into a pleasant shade that made the wait slightly more tolerable. Nearby, Viridian militiamen stood at attention, or walked the checkpoint line, asserting their presence and reminding us that we were now safe.

So tired was I, that it took me nearly five minutes of standing in line to notice the separate line for trainers, which I deduced from the multiple pokeballs each person carried, and the pokedexes they were flashing to the one guard there, who looked decidedly less beleaguered and overstressed than the one at the front of the line I was in. I stepped out and crossed the checkpoint to my proper line, just behind the last person left, an elder man in hunting leathers with pokeballs painted green hanging off a bandolier slung across his chest. His pokedex showed up clean, and I stepped forward, pokedex at the ready.

The guard wrinkled his nose, though out of confusion or the wind blowing my smell his way I couldn't say. "The hell is this?" He asked, exasperated. "Sir, I'm not trained to operate custom-built models."

I explained that it was the generation two beta, and asked him to keep it on the down low, I added, hoping to increase my credibility.

He frowned and opened it. After a moment of fiddling he grew interested, even excited. I sensed a hobby. "Wow, this is the real deal. Notebook, keyboard, note-taking, sketchboard," I smirked. Blue really had a knack for people. The guard pointed the identifying camera at the drug-sniffing growlithe at the front of the traveler line and his face opened into a small 'o'. "The scan time has been nearly halved!"

I dug out my laminated trainer's ID and handed it to him as well. As interesting as it was to hear about my new machine, I was much more interested in a hot shower. The guard took it and handed back my pokedex, looking a bit guilty.

"'PKMN Trainer Red'. Birth date, ID #, licensing location…Well, this looks legitimate, even if I can't verify it in the database." The guard glanced back at the militiaman holding the growlithe, and leaned it. "Tell you what. You, uh, you put in a good word for me being on the next beta test, m-maybe I'll forget to call my supervisor."

He was young, a little older than me. His voice got rather wobbly towards the end, which told me he wasn't much of a liar or a cheat. That in turn told me he wouldn't do very well in the law enforcement sector. I assured him I would. He preformed a cursory bag check, which I passed and then moved on. I never did get around to it. It probably has something do with how little respect I have for people who don't make their own futures.

Blue was different. He used his name, yes, but as a tool, a bludgeon. Never a shield. Blue could have had a life of luxury and mindless hedonism, but he didn't. Blue could have taken a safer route to his goals, but he didn't. Blue could have done any number of things to ease his passage into the trainer world, but he did not, and that is what makes him my rival. He knows the urge we both share, to throw ourselves against the wall of the world and test our own mettle. To take extra money to start out, or fortify ourself, or even wait until after a stay at a trainer school, or a stint in the military to strengthen ourselves would have cheapened the experience to near worthlessness. There is pure metal in the heart of every person, and it is blasphemy to pound away at it cold before you expose it to the open flame.

Me? Mine is the name of a bastard. To add it to my ID would have needlessly sentimentalized my journey. I am, was and shall be Red, ever since that day in the park. Anything else is extrapolation.

The evergreens for which Viridian is named open like gates into the heart of the city, a sign nearby bidding me welcome. Of the many ways I can describe walking into a city the first time, especially a tourism hub like Viridian, the single most apt word I can think of is busy.

People are rushing, shouting, running, howling everywhere. Vendors sit in stalls, or walk the streets, hawking their wares from tables and boxes and sidewalks. Demagogues and rabble-rousers stand atop stairs or podiums or crates, preaching their stories, of the god Mew or the god Arceus, of holy Moltres and the shining Ho-Oh, living legends and nightmares that walk the land among us to this day.

I could look around and see every class of person from every walk of life on the streets. Businessmen in suits, students and soldiers and student soldiers in uniform, women in dresses, in shawls, in the occasional kimono. There was no distinction between social statuses; everyone simply had too many places to be, and all of them were late. Not a melting pot, but a melting sea, ever shifting, ever mixing.

And there were pokemon. A rich socialite with her well-groomed espeon. A gaggle of street children chasing dirty ratattas. A deliveryman with an aipom riding his shoulder. Caterpies and weedles and wurmples and spinaraks in a silk store. Pidgeys flying endlessly overhead, holding messages or simply wild. A city wasn't considered civilized until it could keep the pokemon out, yet you couldn't civilize a city without pokemon. It was a paradox.

And it all came together for one reason. The four'o'clock bell rang, and all heads turned west, towards that beaten mountain path to Victory Road, where yet another batch of challengers would be releasing their initialed pokeballs down the Tohjo Falls and heading forward to take their swipe at fame. Victory Road was open all year, right up until a week before the Championships. A Pokemon League official vetted beyond all shadows of a doubt would be waiting at the end, to take your name and put it down for the Preliminaries. There were other ways to the Indigo Plateau for spectators, certainly, roads and transports. But you couldn't enter the tournament without going through Victory Road. There are no shortcuts to deification.

For whom it concerned, the belled tolled one fourth and final time, and the city resumed motion, bustling, sprinting, screaming.

It took me an hour to find the cheapest motel I could that still had a shower, and another hour still to freshen up and find a decent meal. By the time I returned to the streets, the sky was darkening rapidly and the lamps were just being lit. True electric lights were saved for the center of the city, to discourage attacks; my dwellings were near the outskirts.

Viridian was a tourist's city, built in layers, wide instead of tall. The tallest structure in Viridian was the city hall, a seven-story building, atop which you could see the holy fire burning brightly on the spire even from where I was. Skyscrapers were a rarity in Kanto, due to the way they attracted strikes from flying and electric pokemon like moths to a flame – only corporations with the money and power to safeguard them were allowed to build them, and only then under stringent standards. They weren't completely extinct, however. I had heard of the PokeMart headquarters in Celadon, and of the many man-made mountains that dotted the skyline of Saffron. And, of course, the Pokemon Tower in Lavender, but it was as close to universally sacred as existed in Kanto.

Originally, my plan had been to buy camping equipment and supplies for my trip through the great Viridian Forest, but I found my feet leading me elsewhere as I made my way through the narrow, crowded streets. There were few parts of Viridian that slept. Call it the country bumpkin in me, but the mass of people was rather intimidating at the time. I count myself lucky that I had the foresight to keep Pikachu's pokeball and my trainer ID in a zippered inside pocket. I was pickpocketed no less than three times on my way to the Viridian Gym, for the change in my pocket alone; had I not left my wallet under my mattress in the motel, I might have ended up broke.

The massive dome of the Gym skirted the edge of the city, built atop a sharp incline which only made the largest building in Viridian City more impressive as you ascended the steps to its courtyard. Deviating from the razzle-dazzle style of the tourist trap it was associated with, the Viridian Gym was an elegant fortress: solar panel roof, walls of steel and stone overlapping angularly in tasteful modern style married to Roman decorations. Columns lined the courtyard, and am expensive fountain gurgled between the last two winding sets of stairs to the entrance. It was practical but unashamed of its finery. I couldn't help but admire it.

I arrived alongside the lamplighters working to illuminate the edges of the city. I noticed electric lights on the outside of the gym and pegged them for emergencies; no doubt the Gym held a shelter beneath it. The food vendors who normally set up shop outside to catch the spectator rush had long since packed up and left, leaving only loose flyers and wrappings behind. A new van was parked at the edge of the courtyard, with a scruffy man in a blazer and glasses sweating in the warm night outside it in a folding chair. An abandoned camera sat next to another chair. He waved at me as he passed.

"It's closed." He told me, confirming my suspicions. I nodded and waved back, but moved on regardless.

I couldn't have told you what made me come in the first place. It wasn't as if I expected to catch the former Grand Champion at closing time. Giovanni was notorious for his refusal to attend anything but the bare minimum of hours required of a Gym Leader.

I stopped at the heavily engraved front entrance and tested the handle. Locked, naturally. I pressed my hand up against the wood.

A thousand challengers had passed through these doors. At least. The Viridian Gym had held its position as the toughest Gym in the Indigo League ever since Giovanni had taken his position, which was even more impressive considering one of the Gyms only employed Dragon-types. This, coupled with Giovanni's many absences, had decreased the popularity of the Gym, as many trainers only sought to win their required eight badges to enter the Championships and had no wish to punish themselves. But there were always those few who went the extra distance, those special, ambitious trainers who battled for the challenge first, the glory second and the money last. 'Battle-chasers' and 'adrenaline-junkies' the media called us. They couldn't possibly understand.

I would challenge this Gym, I knew then. I would walk through these doors and claim that badge from the man the Japanese called _Tenkaichi_, or I would not face the Grand Champion at all.

Impulsively, I pressed my ear to the door, to see if I would hear them; the victors and glorious dead.

Of course not. Additionally, my face was now up against a door people had been putting their unwashed hands over all day. I stepped back and self-consciously tipped my hat to hide my embarrassment.

I walked back across the courtyard and down the stairs, stopping to rub some water on my face out of the fountain. Hundred of coins winked at me from the bottom in the flickering lamplight.

"You're out late, kid." The newsman commented, picking a piece of chicken out of his takeout meal. At some point he had been rejoined by his cameraman, sifting through his takeout with chopsticks.

I told him the same.

He and his cameraman shared a weary laugh. "Ain't that the truth. Our editor heard that the Pokemon Professor's grandson was coming to town, tells us to wait down by the gym, since if he's coming he's bound to stop by. Only, he never shows. Cheeky little fuck. I don't suppose you're Gary Oak?" I shook my head, and the newsman snorted. "Of course not."

"I'm about done, Richie." The cameraman informed him dully. "If the boss wants to meet baby Oak so bad he can chase him down himself. I'm going home." He pulled his keys from a pocket and jingled them. "You comin' or you walkin'?"

The newsman chewed his meat reflectively for a second. "Nah, you're right. I'm coming."

I told them they had missed Blue by several days and that he was probably halfway through the Viridian Forest by now. The cameraman was busy pulling open the door to his van, but the newsman – Richie – heard me, and paused in the folding of his chair.

"Really?" His tone was even, but interested. "And how would you know that?"

I told them Blue had told me personally a few days ago, and that I knew him because we had graduated together. It was close enough to the truth. I showed him my trainer ID, which he squinted and cleaned his glasses to read in the dim firelight.

"Huh." Richie muttered. "Serendipity. I'll take it. Red, is it? You want a ride back your hotel? Just a warning: Charlie drives fast, and we only accept payment in the form of stories."

-(=0=)-

I looked for Richie's article in the paper the next day, but it wasn't there. I supposed that one anonymous testimony wasn't enough for an article. More interesting was the article on the front page, capitalized letters screaming across the front page.

_VIRTUAL POKEMON CREATED: A NEW POKEMON EVENT HORIZON?_

My eyebrows rose right to the brim of my hat as I read the shocking news. Apparently, by studying electronic history records of forays into artificial intelligence technology, Silph Co. funded Cinnabar scientists had managed to recreate and successfully complete said efforts. Putting aside my papery bread and lukewarm scrambled eggs, I took the remote – there was no one else in the sleepy motel breakfast room – and turned on the television in the corner, flipping to Cinnabar Island News. I waited until after the castform weather report to see the interview.

The reporter was young, blond and pretty. The head scientist, an eccentric looking elder man with an unexplained scar disappearing under the eye patch covering his left eye, obviously had trouble keeping his one remaining eyeball from dropping down her shirt as they spoke.

"We call it porygon. It's truly quite- quite astounding, I would say. The br- the _best_ work we have done so far."

It cut to a scene of a holographic creature being projected from metal stand. It had a hot pink polyhedral body with steel blue triangular prism feet and a blue rectangular prism tail and stomach. As far as appearances went, it was strikingly bland.

The scientist's voice narrated over as the scene changed, to him and several other men in labcoats testing the porygon's capabilities from behind a reinforced glass wall. "The porygon is capable of reverting, of breaking down completely into programming code to enter computer and wireless networks. No pokeball is necessary. It is, essentially, a corporeal artificial intelligence."

The screen cut back to the young reporter and the head scientist in his office. "But Dr. Fuji, if that's the case, couldn't it simply be copied endlessly?"

"Not so, for several reasons, one of which is the copyrighting code we wrote on behalf…"

I watched for a little while longer, impressed. A fully artificial pokemon. New evolutions and pokemon were discovered frequently, but it had been a very long while since a discovery of this magnitude had been discovered. I waited and listened to the expected limitations: cost, the complexity of construction, beta-testings, and the danger of too many AI running around in the system, waited and wondered.

How long? How long until before technology outstripped and dominated all pokemon? Until the Legendaries were kenneled, until settlements covered Neo-Japan, until humanity once again became the apex predator of Earth? People talked of it like a glorious thing, the impending conquest. I wasn't quite so sure.

Ironically, that was right when the news cut to a Team Rocket recruitment commercial. A series of attractive celebrities smiled and talked about advancing the human agenda, eventually segueing into that favorite story about how our ancestors traveled the stars in rocket ships and how we could again and ending with the motto playing out – _"Blasting off at the speed of light!"_- right under the big red R.

I got bored and turned off the television. At the time, Team Rocket was nothing more to me than what it seemed to the public: that pro-human non-profit group you always heard about holding bake-sales and conventions in the cities, lobbying for settlement expansion and the colonization of new regions. Team Rocket was also popular in Johto, and had sparked a number of copycat groups in other regions such as Sinnoh and Hoenn, with rumors of another starting up in Unova, though their causes and goals varied wildly from the original.

Ha. I couldn't possibly have known, could I?

I left the paper on the table and headed out, checking out in the motel lobby. I had errands to run. Reading the porygon article had lit a fire under me. The world was not going to sit still, and neither was I.

I browsed through several outdoors and hunting stores but ultimately decided to pack light, foregoing buying the compact gas stove which had looked so appealing. I knew how to make fire. There is more comfort in memory than in technology, because of the two, only one will not fail you on a rainy day. I bought two pairs of fingerless gloves, one red, one black, with rubber pads and knuckle-guards.

My second errand was of far greater importance. I bought a knife. Nothing large, nothing great and threatening. A sharp, sure pocketknife.

There is a tradition to follow when one becomes a trainer in the Indigo League. A superstition which transformed itself into proper unwritten law through mass replication.

It took me no more than ten minutes to carve my name into the red half of one of my five free pokeballs, issued with my license. Some bought special balls for the occasion, or paid for their engraving, or a did a hundred other things extravagant and strange. Not I. Make no mistake; there is a clever magic in simplicity.

I wrote no more than what was required. _PKMN Trainer Red_. The top two prongs of the K were a little bunched together, and the loop of my R a bit too circular, and it was absolutely perfect. I stuck it in my pocket and headed out.

The twelve-o-clock bell rang as I began my trek down the notoriously and intentionally short Route 22. I felt a brief moment of annoyance at the coming wait which was crushed to a pulp under the bulk of my anticipation. Not once did I feel an inkling of danger. Route 22 was the most ranger-patrolled Route in Kanto, and for good reason – no one wanted to see their would-be champions get buried under a swarm of beedrill before they could compete. The only safer Route in existence was the not-Route, 23, spanning from Victory Road to the Indigo Plateau. There wasn't a pokemon within fifty miles, there.

I was far from alone. Midday was always the busiest time at Tohjo Falls. Route 23 swarmed with spectators and trainers traveling to and from the Falls. I along with several other trainers managed to catch a ride on an elderly couple's ponyta-driven carriage for the price of a meat bun and company. Their bickering was an art form.

"Huh! So you punks you think you have what it takes? Ha!" The old man's face, already leathery and wrinkled like a squirtle, bunched only further in disdain as he regarded us. "I can tell what it takes to be a champion, and none of you chuckleheads have got it, I tell you what!"

"Oh dear, leave them alone," His wife said resignedly, out of habit more than any real belief he would stop. Her hair was shock-white and pulled back in an intricate bun. "You promised you wouldn't get all riled up if I let you have your coffee early this morning."

His chin rose proudly, displaying a mottled scar in the bunched flesh of his neck. "I ain't getting riled up, I'm just telling the truth, honey. There's a certain kind of person with the potential to face the Elite Four, and I just-_is that a sling_!" His voice exploded with such indignant rage that the trainer he skewered with his furious scowl actually shifted back a little. A leathery sling hung from a loop in his trainer belt, next to three pokeballs hanging on magnetic clips. "A _pokeball sling_! You've got to be shitting me! What next, a goddamn pool cue?"

"Language, dear!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry but that is just the limit!" The old man raised one crooked finger and jabbed it at the sling trainer, who was trying valiantly to hide his growing amusement. "Son, any trainer with a lick of sense knows you throw your pokeballs, or at least keep'em in hand. A sandslash will rip you ten new orifices before you have that thing halfway up to casting speed!"

"I have better range with this." The trainer pointed out.

"Range? Range!" The old man sputtered. "What, you think because you know a little woodcraft that you can sneak up on a real pokemon? And what then, if you do? You're not going to surprise it into a capture, that's for sure! That thing'll be out of that ball and halfway up your ass in seconds!"

"Dear!"

"You see that tree? It could be a sudowoodo in disguise! It comes at you! This meat bun is a pokeball!" The old man winged his bun, which squished against the rough bark less than a second later. "That sudowoodo is now trapped for a minimum of three seconds, more if it's weaker and closer to bonsley age. That's three seconds which you can use to run, or summon your own pokemon to fight it, a Water-type or Grass-type if you're smart! Those three seconds are the difference between life and death! What's more expensive, one wasted pokeball or having your arm off from a razor leaf attack?"

The slinger opened his mouth to protest. I stared. There had been more to that throw than met the eye. How good could this old man's eyesight be at his age? His reflexes, his throwing arm? Yet he'd instantly compensated for weight, thrown with perfect form, and hit a tree nearly forty feet away with perfect accuracy.

I truly saw at the old man now. The scar on his neck, his wife's already snow white hair and his strangely in-depth knowledge of pokemon and pokemon training, more than anything you'd pick up from hearsay or rumor. The ring indent on his middle finger, next to his marriage band, only confirmed my suspicions.

I asked him what year he'd become a champion.

The old man drew back, like someone had flicked him in the forehead, and the other trainers looked at me strangely. I saw the driver's wife quietly rub his leg in comfort. Eventually his natural scowl reasserted itself, and he spoke again, almost reluctantly this time.

"Forty-seven years ago. The fifth Indigo League Championship." He growl, a grudging admission. He rubbed his bald head uncomfortably. It was strange to see the previously obnoxious man so subdued now. "I retired when I made third-ring, four Championships later, when my first son was born."

The other trainers who had previously been doing their best to feign sleep or drowsiness (which was impossible on the bumpy cobblestones), instantly sat up to full attention. The slinger, perhaps feeling slighted from earlier, scoffed. "As if, grandfather. Who ever heard of a champion selling meat buns? Where's your ring, then? Your pokemon team? Your champion stone?"

"I sold the ring to pay for my land and marriage." The old man replied evenly. "My team died off three decades ago – bird and bug pokemon don't have much of a shelf life outside of a pokeball. We already passed my stone aways back; you're welcome to go back and search it out if that's your pleasure."

"Sure." The trainer said sarcastically, before crossing his arms and looking away.

The old man's face didn't change, but he turned back to the front and took the reins, his previous energy evaporated. His wife turned around and smiled at us warmly, retrieving a foreboding set of pictures from her purse. "Who would like to hear about our grandchildren?"

Forced smiles and gritted teeth.

The rest of the ride actually turned out better than expected. Her two grandsons, apparently, were hosts of two different but decently popular television shows. The trainers actually began to show some real interest near the end of the ride, and when we pulled up to the checkpoint at Tohjo Falls, a few of them actually lingered to say goodbye before dashing off to the cliffs. I politely waited with the old couple and helped them wheel their meat bun cart out despite their protests. The guards waved them through, obviously recognizing them as regulars. My wait cost me, however. When we finally made it to the main overlook area, the edge was jam-packed full of trainers, and the automated timer was in the last thirty seconds before the one'o'clock release. There was no time to squeeze to the front.

Strangely, I felt no disappointment at this. I didn't need to see my target to hit it.

I turned to the old man and asked him how to throw a pokeball. I saw him smile for the first and last time. Months later, in Saffron, I would read his obituary in the newspaper and order a bouquet of red roses flown by dragonite to his funeral.

"There's nothing to it at all," He said, and told me.

The timer buzzed. The people cheered.

I let my pokeball fly high up into the crushing blue sky.

-(=0=)-

I had tarried far too long in Viridian. Blue could – no, would – be in Pewter by now. He'd be working his way through the gym disciples at that very moment. Or perhaps, even worse, he'd already be facing Brock himself. Others would ask how a rookie trainer with only an eevee and pidgey, perhaps pidgeotto to his name could hope of defeating the Ainu gym leader's legendary onix, Sky Eater. Not I. With Blue, it was not a question of how, but of when.

For this reason I ignored the unwritten tradition of heavy drinking after throwing my challenge ball and stopped only to buy a compass and some very special rope before hitching a ride to the Viridian Forest checkpoint on one of the bug catcher trucks.

There was a line at the desk when I walked into the checkpoint building, and two rangers barring the door to the Forest. Puzzled, I waited my turn in line behind several grumbling men in galoshes and butterfree face-nets. The guard behind the desk was in no better a mood, from what I gathered of his flat tone and humorless countenance. I minced no words and slid my trainer ID through the double-strength glass slot. He returned it shortly with a paper form and a pen. "Sign here, please."

I frowned and skimmed it. It was a legal release waiver. I asked, as politely as I could, the reasoning behind it. I had never heard of trainers holding other trainers accountable for their own safety.

Thankfully, the man was in an informal mood, and I had just jammed my thumb down on his bitch button. "Happened a couple months ago. Some whiny youngster blueblood wandered into a beedrill nest and got his team killed escaping along with a few decent holes in him. Next thing you know, we're up to our balls in lawyers and reporters squealing about proper ranger sweeps and negligence. Our supervisor gets fired, everyone's forced to attend some fuckin' seminar, and now every guy that wants to pass through here has to sign this," He slapped the pile of waivers next to him. "-fucking piece of trash. Man, what the fuck happened to personal responsibility? It seems like everyone in this new generation is born with a silver spoon in their mouth these days. You think just because have a license and a fighting pokemon that you own the whole damn world!"

"Eikichi." One of his coworkers said warningly, touching his arm. He shook them off brusquely.

"Alright, yeah, okay, chill. Lemme just finish with this kid and clock out. Good? Good." I signed my form quietly and handed it over, where he threw it into his pile and stood up. "You get into trouble, trainer, you cover your own ass, _ga wakarimasu_?"

I nodded mutely. The guard grabbed his coat off a rack and left. The checkpoint was subdued after that, and was still quiet as I walked out the door into the Viridian Forest.

It's hard to describe the Forest the first time you walk in. At first glance, it seems like a typical patch of Kantoan deciduous forest. There are evergreens, oaks and maples. You can hear shrieking cries of squabbling between spearows and pidgeys and the sound of running water. But these are things you see whenever you hear the word 'forest'. Viridian Forest is another beast entirely.

What to call it? What words can you use to describe something when it's very air reeks of defiance, of untamed mystery? Attempts had been made before to domesticate the Forest, fences built and buildings planned. All of them ended in miserable failure. Contractors would scoff at the mention of curses or haunting, yet refuse flatly to even consider a project investment in the same breath. It was as good as law: you did not cage the Viridian Forest. The very best pokemon rangers had been able to do was set up warnings and markers at the edges and keep the beedrill population low, and still great numbers of people, trainers and civilians, went missing without a trace every year.

There were no maps for Viridian Forest. Some people claimed that the very trees uprooted themselves and moved around at night. Those prone to rationalization reasoned that it was just a natural maze.

I will set the record straight. There are several sure signs to follow. Pewter City is north. If you climb a tree, you can see Mt. Moon in the distance. Stay away from flowers and fruit, as their presence suggests the presence of beedrill nearby. As long as one keeps a steady head, it is very much possible to pass through the Viridian Forest without incident. All the trouble with trade caravans and travel stems only from the leaders of said groups being sheltered shut-ins who have likely never been outside a settlement in their entire life and hearsay.

I made good progress into the Forest by dusk with the aid of my pokemon repellant, passing several bug catchers on their way out who were happy to point me in the right direction. Perhaps if I had come earlier they might have offered a battle, but the day was getting late and their teams were no doubt tired from the capture of many caterpie and weedle to sell to the tailors and seamstresses of Viridian City. I picked clean the few unpicked berry bushes I found and took a few pictures of the landscape and some rare pokemon I glimpsed before they rushed off into the brush with my pokedex, repelled by my chemical stench.

I gave myself plenty of time to set up camp as I stopped for the night. I checked the surrounding area for ariados webbing, leech seeds and shroomish spores. I constructed a small canopy using some spare kindling and a tarp. I then coaxed a fire into existence, using a gas lighter, dry leaves and dead branches I stripped off of a lightning-stricken tree near my campsite. I soon had a comfortable blaze going, enough to finish my final chore of the day.

I retrieved the long length of rubber cable I'd bought earlier that day from my backpack and set it on the ground. It took me five minutes of searching to find a rock heavy and large enough for my purposes, which I tied one end of the cable around and buried a foot deep. I packed the dirt down tightly and threw a few smaller rocks on top of the mound, just in case. Then, I fashioned the other end of the cable into a simple, self-tightening leash.

With that leash in hand, I retrieved my pokeball and released Pikachu.

Immediately as he appeared, I leapt upon him and noosed him around the neck. I'd released him quite close to prevent any quick escape. Immediately, the yellow animal raised up quite a din, snarling and leaping at me, snapping and biting. I quickly retreated to the other side of the campfire, beyond the slack of the cable.

I barked a warning and held up the pokeball. Pikachu instantly shrank back, eyes dilated and fixed on the glass slide from which the laser would issue. No, this rat was not stupid, no matter his crude nature. It had already recognized the power of the object I held in my hand.

For my next display, I used a combination of hand gestures and words to get my meaning across, hoping to adjust the pokemon to human speech early. Hand gestures are very helpful, but they are not very good for specifics.

In no uncertain terms, I informed Pikachu that I was his leader now, and that whether he accepted it now or later was his choice. However, I said, it would be better if he did so sooner, as we happened to be in the middle of a giant forest filled with hungry pokemon and they wouldn't think much at all of snapping up one tasty morsel of rodent, especially all trussed up as he was. So it was his decision, I told him. He could wait for me to go to sleep and shock me to death in my sleep, or he could keep watch tonight and raise an alarm if he saw anything malicious coming our way.

Pikachu hissed at me in response.

I sighed. Of course it couldn't be that simple. Oh, I was fairly certain the rat had gotten the message. I simply had my doubts as to whether or not Pikachu gave a fuck whether he lived or died as long as he could take me along with him. He is still the coldest, most vindictive little monster I've ever born witness too.

As a peace offering, I brought over some oran berries I had found while foraging. He tried to bite me when I dropped them, and I ignored me when I tried to communicate that food wouldn't be a problem now that he was one of my fighters. I gave up for the night and settled back under my canopy to explore my pokedex and actually do the job which had earned me my license.

I decided to test the word processor feature. I'd always toyed with the idea of keeping a field notebook. I had never had trouble remembering things, but it was always good to keep a record, for clarity. The program lay open and waiting on my lap. But what to write?

In the end, I decided to recreate my journey projection from memory. You see, years ago I had planned my travel route as a trainer out in my head. It wasn't any casual thing, however. It had taken weeks of research. I had studied indigenous pokemon in each area, recorded levels of pokemon attacks and trainer concentration levels. I had pored meticulously through settlement economies, seeing which cities would be the most expensive. I had checked gym difficulty ratings and reviews, sifting through the biased reports to the hard statistics. The result was a pilgrimage, from city to city, each one gradually more difficult and costly than the last, in the hopes that I would be able to grow in strength quickly without being stuck at any one place too long. Certainly, it had gotten somewhat convoluted around Celadon, Fuschia and Saffron, but the logic and calculations were still sound. I wondered if Blue had done something similar.

Pallet to Viridian. Viridian to Pewter. Pewter to Cerulean, to Vermillion, to Lavender then Celadon then Fuschia and Saffron. To Cinnabar. And then to Viridian once more. Trying for Johto badges had never been an option – passports were hard enough to get for trainers in good standing, let alone vagrants like me. Perhaps if tensions eased some between Kanto and Johto I would consider it. Perhaps.

It was a good mental exercise, dredging up the old facts from memory. I was just getting into the effects the dystopian politics of the infamous Route 17 - AKA Cycling Road - had on economics of nearby Celadon when disaster with a sharp electromagnetic snap.

A venomoth had emerged from the forest, attracted by the light of the fire. Pikachu growled and sparked, but I realized with horror that he had no charge left, having been kept in his ball since I had drained him. Even as I spoke, the poisonous pokemon's mandibles chattered in warning as it's wings beat frantically.

I immediately seized a handful of my shirt and pressed it to my mouth and face, turning away. A cloud of poisonous dust exploded from the venomoth's scaly wing sacs. Pikachu squealed knowingly and leapt out of the way. I squeezed my eyes shut and felt the poisonous gust buffet me.

The dust settled and I felt my skin begin to itch irritably. I knew I had a matter of minutes before the poison incapacitated me, through pain or numbness. Heedless of the heat, I kicked the fire in the venomoth's direction, sending up an incandescent and regrettably harmless spray of sparks and small coals at the bug pokemon. It clacked and nattered furiously, retreating. I took advantage of the delay to recall Pikachu and beat a hasty retreat into the woods.

The Viridian Forest was dark and menacing now, full of malicious, tripping branches and snatches of revealing moonlight which I strayed back from as I flew through the woods, heart pounding. My wits came back to me in the gaps between panicked breath: poison. I was covered in poison. I had to cleanse myself.

I forced myself to a halt and directed all my attention to my ears, listening desperately through the ambient sounds of the Forest and subliminal pounding of blood for the sound of the strong brook I had marked earlier in my perimeter patrol. I heard the water rushing over the stones after a second's wait. I waited a moment more. I didn't want rush off on a hopeful impulse. When the noise persisted, I loped off in pursuit.

My skin was burning when I finally found it. Not even bothering to strip off my clothes, I leapt.

I gasped in relief as the water soothed my screaming dermal cells. I rubbed furiously for a tense minute until the enflamed areas finally began to fade in intensity. After a brief self-physical I determined that I was in no immediate danger, and slowed down my splashing to a much less attention-drawing noise level.

I realized my mistake almost instantly. I had been sticking to the routine checklist of camp-building memorized in my head, ignoring the very first and most important rule of being a pokemon trainer, which had been drilled into my head time and time again in my classes: there is no set routine that will protect you in the wild.

Despite how far we've come, the Pokemon World is still a strange and mysterious place, full of a thousand things our species has learned to expect and a million more we'll never see coming until they hit us. Perhaps my camp setup had been safe in the woods around Pallet, but this was not Pallet. I then put lighting a fire under my checklist of things to do under no circumstances in undomesticated pokemon-infested territory at night, right under the most glaring and obvious of them, that being trying to travel.

I pulled myself out of the water and shook myself off as best I could. I had learned my lesson of the Viridian Forest – respect and vigilance. Now, it was time I taught the Forest a few things about me.

-(=0=)-

Two venemoth fluttered in tandem above the glowing fire. It had called its mate. Together, they dove and swooped in the ambient light, plucking the mosquitoes and moths and fireflies from the night air, lured here so gullibly by the illumination. I was not surprised the first one had not chosen to pursue – venemoths were no carnivores, despite their aggressiveness. This one had simply seen the large abundance of food there for the taking and taken it, no doubt for his female, swollen with an unlaid venonat brood. It was almost touching.

I waited until she dipped low, lower than she already was, bearing the heavy weight of her pregnancy.

Then I leapt from the shadows and crushed her skull with a big stick.

Lesson one: I grew up chasing pokemon through the streets and fields of Pallet Town. I had never once ridden somewhere I could access on foot in my youth. I was no limp-wristed student – I was a born trainer, strong and fast.

It didn't take the first time, of course, despite strong arms and good connection. Bug pokemon are not quite as frail as bugs. It was more than sufficient to throw her to the ground, where one vicious twisting stamp ruined the venomoth female's hopes of ever flying again.

The male attacked immediately, or would have, had I not brained him with a pokeball after my first swing. The old man had been rather pessimistic, in my opinion. I was able to bash the female's head in, properly this time, calmly drop the stick, and take two things out of my pocket and raise them before the enraged venomoth male struggled his way out of my pokeball. Five seconds at least.

Lesson two: Pallet Town was no walled city. It was sleepy, which meant that the number of people who died from wild pokemon attacks only had two digits. Most of said deaths occurred on the ranch where I worked. Our world was brutal and violent and uncaring and cold. I could be no less if I wished to live in it.

Five seconds. Then, I pulled the trigger of my gas lighter and depressed the pokemon repellant bottle's spray button all at once. The venomoth broke free to a world of fire.

I directed the flow of chemical flame in slashing sweeps, advancing slowly but steadily. The venomoth, blinded by pain, flew wildly and without prudence, swooping straight into the ground, and then into a tree. I didn't stop until my repel ran out. Then I took up my wooden club once more, tracked the burning pokemon down and shortly thereafter murdered it.

Among pokemon, Bug-types are by far the most individually fragile and weak. There are exceptions to every rule, but few to this one. Their main use in pokemon battles stems from their rapid evolution and learning curve, many esoteric poisons and powders and the fact that they are easily replaceable. In swarms, they are the subject of nightmares. Alone, or in pairs, they can easily be neutralized with the use of nothing more deadly than a net.

Perhaps in a better mood, I might have tried to capture them, or simply drive them away. But that was lesson three.

Lesson three: I was not a good loser.

I extinguished the burning carcass with a few scoops of dirt and dragged it back to my camp. The fire was gone but for glowing coals, now. I stamped out the remainder and tore down my tarp to lay out the two dead venomoth; I would have to move camp locations anyway to avoid the attention of the scavengers who would undoubtedly come to investigate the commotion. I retrieved my backpack and unclipped the small carabineer flashlight attached to a loop looked over my spoils as I reviewed venomoth salvage in my mind.

I bit the flashlight and took out my knife, sawing away at the junction between the thorax and abdomen of the male. I made sure to use to use the tarp to grasp the abdomen, to avoid touching the downy soft fur that covered it, which naturally was coated in paralytic poison. Venomoth fur was valuable. Once it was thoroughly cleaned and had the razor sharp ends clipped and treated, it was one of the preferred coat linings for expensive garments and other fabric products.

After some twisting and sawing, I managed to separate the abdomen. I discarded the upper half – there was some inroad into the use of venomoth wing powder as makeup, but I doubted I'd find any buyers in a rural city like Pewter. I surveyed my prize critically. The fire had done damage to the delicate pelt, but there were still parts worth saving. I propped the abdomen upright and tore a slit down the side, dumping the venomous guts out onto the forest floor. They smelled positively foul. After a few shakes, I managed to dislodge most of the innards and slime, after which I folded the gutted abdomen up on the tarp.

The female was by far the greater prize. Fetal venonat was a delicacy, which, cooked properly, could send a man's tongue to heaven with a single bite. The aftertaste of burning, neutralized poison, the soft, gooey flesh, eyes that crunched like ripe chestnuts. I felt my own self begin to salivate. I had tasted one once, at a fundraising dinner Professor Oak had brought the Pallet school class to. It was an effort to remind myself that improving my monetary situation was a more pressing concern than self-indulging.

With great care, I slit the venomoth female's abdomen open and scooped out the fetal sacs with the edge of my knife. I knew the uterine acid would etch the steel irreparably, but with the money I made I could buy two dozen new knives to replace it.

I was careful but harried. I dumped the unborn venonats in my stainless steel leftovers container, dumping the previous night's supper out and cursorily wiping the residue. I could go hungry one night for this. Then I stripped the female's abdominal fur as well and gathered my rubber cord and tarp before beating a hasty retreat to my fallback site, a dead overturned tree surrounded by many dry leaves which I had, ironically, passed over to due the fire danger of my creation spreading while I slept.

I grounded the rubber cord and laid out my camp once more, this time sans the attention grabbing heat-source. Then I released Pikachu and collared him. It went much more smoothly this time, despite his foul attitude, which I suppose is possibly because I was sporting a mood just as grumpy at the time. I contemplated the idea of finishing my map, but discarded it – I was too badly jarred by last hour to recall memories that distant reliably. I devoured a cold dinner of biscuits and trail bars before I went to sleep.

I awoke with a start next morning. I had not had easy dreams, or easy sleep, despite long practice of bedding on the hard ground.

The commotion, of course, woke Pikachu, who appeared to have been lightly dozing. He immediately stretched and shook the dirt off of him. His ears flicked back, clinging mistrustfully to his back as I approached. A cord of electricity cracked out from his left cheek, a warning: he had taken the night to accumulate static and recharge.

I did not flinch. Fear was the mind-killer, and also would probably get me literally killed as I was positive this pokemon would kill me cheerfully if he thought he could get away with it. I retrieved a handful of berries from my backpack and set them on the ground where I stood, before moving back.

At first, Pikachu did not move at all. He was, and is, all together too proud and stubborn for a rat pokemon. I moved back a tad further and sat on a large rock, watching but not moving. I knew he would come. Pikachu hadn't had much time to eat before the incident last night, nor the charge to properly prepare his meal. An entire night standing guard would have him starving.

Then, finally, grudgingly, Pikachu came. Padding silently over to the berries, he kept a canny glare on me the entire time. Diplomatically, I moved back as he advanced, taking a seat on a stump. He sniffed the berries once. Then, his cheeks glowed, and he fried them to a crisp. I watched in rapt attention, listening the sharp snap-cracks as the berry skin cracked and boiled. It was one thing to read the scientific description of how Electric-type pokemon were able to divide and control their chaotic and normally unpredictable namesake with seemingly no effort. It was an entirely different thing to see it.

Judging his meal sufficiently blackened, Pikachu began to eat, snapping up whole berries in single bites. He stopped immediately of course when I moved to pack up camp, but slowly resumed as I continued. I doubted it was any measure of trust; rather, Pikachu likely just felt he had ample time to react should I try anything.

I took advantage of his voluntary distraction to edge my way around to where the other end of his rubber leash was buried. Pikachu caught on fast as I began digging it up, but one flash of his pokeball sent him hissing back. I tied the rubber cord securely to my belt and stood. Pikachu finished his berries and we left.

I was troubled by the pokemon's resistance. Rat pokemon were rarely recalcitrant, even with cause; they were still more likely to run than fight. There was no precedent for the kind of fierce defiance the feral had displayed thus far. He wasn't rabid, and I couldn't see any physical signs of abuse or previous ownership. By all conventional logic, he should be starting to adapt to ownership by now, or at the very least losing his recalcitrance.

Conventional logic be damned. I had to drag that rat all the way through the rest of the Viridian Forest, snarling and shooting sparks everywhere. I was finally forced to pokeball Pikachu when one of his stray bolts came too close to hitting a laboring bug catcher, as well as give up one of my venomoth pelts to placate said worker.

I was tired, furious and entirely regretting my choice back in Professor Oak's lab when I finally made it to my destination.

Pewter City: a quiet city between rugged mountains and rocks, the city of my first gym victory, and the birthplace of my revolution.

-(=0=)-

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry #25 (J. # 22): Pikachu_

_Basic Characteristics: Electric-type, quadrupedal mammal, avg. height 1'04, avg. weight 13.2lbs._

_Description: Small, warm-blooded rat-type pokemon. Shares geneology with plusle, pachirisu, emolga and minun family trees. Covered in predominantly yellow fur accentuated by broad brown stripes across the back, whose wideness can determine age and nearness to evolution, such that the nickname 'brownback pikachu' is given to a specimen who is particularly near raichu age. Possessing of long ears tipped in black, capable of detecting sounds from great distances and limited echolocation and a jagged tail used for grounding electrical charges. Pikachu collect electrical charge in the glands located on their cheeks – the size and carrying capacity of these glands is dependant on the frequency of discharge and size. This pokemon is an omnivore, capable of sustaining a human diet with little difficultly._

_Nickname(s): The Mouse Pokemon, the Electric Rat Pokemon, pikas, joltrats, shockmice._

_"…Known to be popular in pokemon contests and as household pets, pikachu are an extremely common, social species whose electric abilities and size allow them to outcompete many other rodent and pest types in urban areas. Typically timid, they are known to become hostile when touched around the tail area or cornered, and are capable of significant damage when attacking in collusion with others of their species. Of their species, not many are used in pokebattling – while they do occasionally demonstrate power disproportionate to their size or initial appearance, trainers typically prefer to wait until brownback age at the very earliest in order to fully utilize their electric potential, if not raichu years; alone, they are pests at the worst and can be safely ignored in most cases…"_

-(=0=)-

1 ) Pokepower: The informal term for the energy into which a pokemon is broken down when they are held in pokeball stasis.

2 ) Holy fire: The fire that is kept lit atop the town halls or capitol buildings of all cities in Kanto. This is meant to symbolize the favor of Moltres, Kantoan god of dawn, dusk, fire and spring. Chemicals are added to make it burn blue during the Indigo League Championships, and it is extinguished during times of war or aggression, dating back to elder pre-region customs of putting out lights when in aggression with another colony in order to avoid discovery.

3 ) Tenkaichi: Best on Earth. Both a pun on the gym's chosen type and a sign of respect, the Japanese gave Giovanni Vittore when he became the eleventh Indigo League Grand Champion. Cited first and foremost as reasons for this are his seriousness, attention to tradition and personal responsibility, all traits which are admired by the Japanese cultural leadership. Even more surprising was their continued endorsement, even after he voluntarily relinquished the Champion's Crest to Lance.

4 ) Ga wakarimasu? : "Understand?" in imperial Japanese. Many imperial Japanese phrases and expressions are used in common conversations, especially by those with Japanese heritage.


	4. 3: Meetings and Reconciliation

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Chapter Three

Meetings and Reconciliation

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"_No great man lives in vain. The history of the world is but the biography of great men."_

_-Thomas Carlyle, Scottish historian, quote recovered from rare paper manuscript_

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It is a mediocre restaurant at best. In Viridian's day, it near becomes a fast food joint, customers rushing in and rushing out, off to their next destination. The food wasn't good, but it tasted good and was cheap and was quick, which was all that mattered.

It isn't nearly swanky or popular enough to be bought completely out, but then again, there the owner stands, holding the blank check in hand, watching dumbly as stone-faced bearded men quietly load crates out of the back of their van and into his restaurant through the back door. Viridian never truly slept, but few dared tread the alleys at night.

Unless, of course, you were packing gas-powered crossbows and truncheons the size of the owner's own blubbery forearm, which these men were. The normal hoodlums had quickly cleared out of the area upon sight of the military grade ordinance.

"I'm sorry, I just don't understand." The owner says apologetically, wringing his hands.

"Is very simple." The man who paid says, face bland and manner docile. "We are having party. Big party. Long party. Perhaps for many days. We are reserving restaurant for party. Check is for money."

"No, no, I get that, sir, believe me. It's just- I mean," The owner frets. "Why here? It's not exactly the classiest joint in town. Or the biggest." He doesn't like insulting his own establishment, but then, he doesn't like the bad feeling these heavily armed men are giving him either. On one hand, it's a lot of potential money he's holding in his hand. On the other, if they're the killing loose ends type, then he's probably already screwed just for seeing them. The owner fights his urge to run.

"Not is problem. Here is fine. Is quaint." The man smiles, beard bristling. The owner notices a spiderweb of puckered scars on his upper cheek. "We like quaint."

"Quaint." The owner repeats. Seeing no way around it, he finally points at the latest van which has pulled up, pulling a very conspicuous trailer. "That is a mining drill."

The money man shrugs and grins. "Party hard."

"Is there a problem?" Another voice asks, and the owner is treated to the second shock of the night.

"Holy shit." The owner blurts before he can control himself. "I mean, uh."

The speaker smiles demurely and waves a hand. "Don't worry about it. As you might believe, I've encountered that reaction before."

The owner is speechless.

"So, is there a problem?"

"Oh, no, not at all, of course not," The owner quickly restarts, host instincts kicking in hard. "I had no idea this was League business. Of course my humble establishment is at your disposal."

"It's not League business." They reveal, in an unexpected show of transparency. "League business is news. This is a personal matter. Personal matters are most certainly not news, as that check in your hand should attest to. Take the cost of our occupation out of there and throw in a vacation for yourself. Don't worry, we'll leave your place completely undamaged. Go take a trip somewhere nice." They smile wider. "Somewhere quiet."

The owner is not dumb. He bows, thanks them profusely for the patronage, and heads to the upper floor of the complex to pack his bags. He notices them setting up computers and electronics in the birthday party room and stoutly forgets it by the time he pulls out his suitcase. It isn't his business. Gym leaders need their vacations too, he rationalizes.

-(=0=)-

Out of all the cities in Kanto, Pewter is probably my favorite. Granted, there's the Indigo Plateau, but the Plateau is the Plateau is the Plateau. Pewter is my favorite after it.

Pewter is quiet but proud. You have to know it to see it. Pewter City was born out of the partnership of brilliant industrialists and the Ainu clan. Out of all the stories of natives being exploited by capitalists, Pewter is the one that defies the rule. The founders knew what they wanted – the ore of Mt. Moon - and the Ainu knew where to dig. These businessmen were the rare sort with enough common sense to realize that one steady trade agreement was worth a thousand dirty profits, and was infinitely preferable to fighting through catacombs full of deadly clansmen to their metal. The city men got their money and the mountain men kept their land. Simple. Respectful. It's not the sort of story that plays out anymore, these days.

Pewter is another low city, built flat and near the bottom of the valley, isolated by the natural walls of the Viridian Forest, Mt. Moon and the Metals. Most of the trade is done by air and material storage transfer. The only land route to Pewter is from Celadon, a single highway carefully sculpted around the Ainu clan's sacred mountain after many years of pro-trade lobbying.

Pewter was not a very famous or popular city. Many attempts had been made to further expand or capitalize the city, only to be stonewalled by the Japanese lobby in Indigo, who considered the Ainu one of their number, never mind the Ainu themselves. The main attractions were its Gym and its museum – there was not much entertainment to be found in a miner's town.

I found a motel easily enough. The rest of the day had my schedule completely open. It was important to establish an accord with Pikachu, at least enough to be able to rely on his compliance in battle, but I did not relish the prospect. I decided to visit the museum first.

The Pewter Museum of Science was a large, pink-roofed building cut with long swaths of windows which let passersby catch tantalizing glimpses of the exhibits within. I noticed the upper left level of the second floor was papered off, covering the windows. A stand outside proclaimed brightly: _COME SEE THE SPACE SHUTTLE EXHIBIT – THE PINNACLE OF THE PRE NEO-DARK, WONDERS GALORE!_, with the date right under it – a week from now. My interest piqued, I entered.

The fifty idol admission fare was a bit steep, but I felt optimistic about how my venomoth sales would go at the farmer's market the next day, so I paid it. Several perpetually irritated security guards kept a vigil on the fossil exhibits, telling the group of school-children there today endlessly that no, you could not touch the exhibits, not even for a second, get your finger off there, please.

I knew a little about the subject of pokemon archeology. Several fossilized skeletons of pokemon, apparently extinct, had been uncovered in excursions into the wilderness and Dark Asia. This was fascinating, as the exact point when pokemon had emerged into the world had always been in question, what with the catastrophic loss of history and records that had come with the Neo-Dark Ages. In the interest of facilitating more study of this, the League had sanctioned research into pokemon cloning and DNA, with the goal of bringing these prehistoric pokemon back to life. It had been a very interesting series of articles half a dozen years back, and had caused quite a stir. I hadn't heard much about it since then, so I assumed it had run out of funding or hit a wall.

My span of attention quickly expended itself – most of the things on display, I had already seen, and the rest was geology exhibits and Pewter history, neither of which I was particularly interested in. I loitered by the second floor stairs for half a minute, tying my shoes for a slightly implausible amount of time. A rambunctious child slipped under the red velvet ropes, causing a commotion which masked my own slipping under the yellow tape as I darted up to the second floor.

Now, it might seem slightly foolish to have done so, but then, to most people, the simple authority of yellow tape was like a fortress. Not I. The truth of the matter is that breaking the law is not a crime, only being caught doing so. And even if I was caught here, there was an untold number of excuses I could use to get me out of trouble. The bathroom downstairs was full. I got lost. My ratatta escaped. None of them very convincing, sure, but I doubted the security would give me much trouble in the event I was discovered. It wasn't as if I was stealing anything. Legendaries knew, I probably wasn't even the first person who had snuck in for a peek.

The halls were eerily silent on the second floor of the museum. I had expected perhaps a few construction workers, or even a janitor, but no. It was utterly devoid of life or sound.

The Mt. Moon moonstone exhibit hadn't been involved in the construction and was hence untouched, but looked much different, in the dim of the curtained windows and dead lights. The moonstones glowed almost imperceptibly in the great shadow of the room, a soft ambience that shed a pale light on the red velvet on which the rocks lay. I spared them a curious glance and moved on to the next section of museum, brushing aside the white sheets which hung from the halfway constructed sign - which through some workman's idle fancy only yet read _COME TO THE SPACE _instead of _WELCOME TO THE SPACE EXHIBIT_, and stepped inside to find my promised wonders galore.

It was something of a disappointment. Said wonders were as a whole only partially constructed. Still, I had come this far. I looked around.

I looked at the cases first. The covering glass was missing, laying the precious artifacts of the exhibits bare like the guts of some wounded animal. I resisted the childish urge to pick up the things I saw – a domed, golden helmet, an air-pistol used for propellant, a stick of liquid food which I'd heard was in development for trainers. My gaze traveled over framed photographs of pictures long stained by anonymous agents of time and abandonment; a rocket station, taller than the tallest skyscraper in Saffron; a man in a fancy suit and office shaking the hand of a man in a white jumpsuit and the helmet I saw earlier; the front of a building initialed NASA. It lingered on the picture of a fully suited man, domed visor shut, saluting a flag on a grey crater-ravaged landscape, and on the next, of the surface of the moon, and the insignificant-seeming blue planet drifting in the background.

Most people, seeing this, called it beautiful, called it breathtaking and profound. I just thought it looked small.

My meandering inspection inevitably brought me to the center of the room, where the pride of all the exhibits lay, no more ignorable than the light of the sun itself. The Space Shuttle Columbia.

It nearly scraped the ceiling, towering over the rest of the room, a great spidery thing like a capsule propped up on steel legs. On impulse I grabbed the railing of the ladder leading to it's interior, wondering what it would be like to sit in the heart of the shuttle. The few info-boards up which I had skimmed said men had made their landings on distant planets in these, perhaps even in other systems or galaxies. I tried to imagine them, alone but for their partners and their bulky suits and domed heads, alone in these metal seed pods drifting through the great unknown – tried and failed. This excited me greatly, as I had not before encountered something I could not imagine in the scope of being.

"Excuse me, are-" I whipped around, and my immediately leapt into my throat and stayed there. "-you supposed to be up here?"

An old woman was hobbling towards me on a wooden cane. She did not seem to rely on it for support, but it was not a fashion accessory. Rather, it seemed as if it were a part of her, moving in such practiced tandem that it could have been a third leg, connected and living. The dead wood was a sharp contrast against the vibrant, defiant life which seemed to radiate from the elder's every pore. Her back was straight like a railroad spike, and her sharp stride spoke of a strength at odds with her age, which was apparent only in her face, full of wrinkled scowl-lines and topped by steely grey hair.

But as any citizen of the Indigo League could tell you, it was best to ignore the last two things when in the presence of the Revenant Queen, Agatha of the Elite Four.

Any excuses available fled from my mind, which went thunderously blank. I tried to respond and only succeeded in leaving my mouth gasping open and shut like a fish. I experienced a strong, sudden chill, goose-bumps popping up in waves on my arms.

Before I could even begin to process her presence, voices grew in my ears and two living gods brushed aside the construction sheets and walked in.

Giovanni was nothing, comparatively. I'd seen the Gym Leader on television a thousand times, speaking for Team Rocket and expansion and colonization and endorsing his franchises. The plain if expensive suit he wore only served to further marginalize him. His persian slinked along by his side, all liquid predator. He had once been the Grand Champion, but even that fact was dwarfed by the very presence of his companion.

The Eleventh Champion of Indigo. The King of Drakes. High Lord of the Dragon Clan. These titles revolved around him, held in place by the titanic mass of his mere presence.

Lance.

Titles are not enough. Words are not enough. Spiritual leader, divine protector, living avatar of the warrior soul. It's almost impossible to verbalize what the Grand Champion is to the Indigo League, but nonetheless I shall try.

When the Indigo League was first established, civilization was still jumbled and disoriented. Cultures were at war. Technology was recovered and advanced in bounds only to be devoured and immolated by disturbed and enraged pokemon. Cities were always a single pokemon horde attack away from being overrun. With the union of Kanto and Johto came some relief in the form of supplies, but it was not enough. There was no order. They needed an absolute leader, one who could not be deposed through corruption or faulty democracy. Moreover, they needed one who the people would accept.

Not a scientist - science was regarded with hostility and fear from the attacks it brought. Not a bureaucrat, for they could not win the people's respect. And certainly not a politician, for the people were hard and canny from survival and did not well tolerate sophistry or bullshit. So they chose among those who the people did admire, who they did respect. The warriors.

Trainers before the Indigo League were the heroes of the people, the sole shield they had against total annihilation. Often a city's survival could depend on the will of a single trainer and his ability to train and lead his pokemon. Some did not even have pokeballs. Only the strong survived.

But they could not simply pick and choose. There had to be a standard. And so born were the Games.

Pokebattling had already been an unofficial tradition among trainers, to keep their teams hardy and alert, but the Games took it to a whole new level. Rules were made, and standards set. In the beginning, there was only the Championship, at the Plateau. There has never been a showing like it. Trainers came from hundreds of miles away to compete, paving the first journey through Victory Road with their blood and dreams. It's said that there wasn't a stool left to sit on, nor a corner on which to lean on the first day of the Championships.

And could it be any other way? It was victory or death, then. Only a Champion could bring them survival; only a Champion could grasp immortality.

The rest is known. The _Shodaime_ won his fame, quelled the culture wars and brought the cities back from the edge of wilderness. He killed the organizers of the civil uprisings and abolitionist movement, which is controversial for some but not for me. He was very much a dictator and tyrant, and I am rather glad for it. I doubt we could have survived otherwise.

Civilization resumed its natural course. The Champion's absolute administrative powers were gradually and democratically divided. Government mellowed out and became as it is today, passive-aggressive and lazily bureaucratic. And the people settled.

But they did not forget. No, they certainly did not forget. It was the Champion who was our shepherd in the darkest of times, and the Champion under whose outstretched wings we still crouch. The people swear by the Champion. Children go to school, and they read the Champion's philosophy. The Champion's strategies are taught in the military, and studied by scientists and philosophers alike. Mothers tuck their children into bed at night, and assure them neither the monsters of the wild nor of their closet will trifle with them under the Champion's vigil. He is more than any man or god, present in every home and heart of the Indigo League. Decades and regions are judged by their Champions.

We are all ants under the shadow of the Champion. Yes, to say he is the Indigo League itself it too much, as the Champion's power derives from what he protects. He is the shield that protects, the hand that guides, and the beating heart of the Indigo League.

I am sorry if I have gone too far. But overestimation, in this matter, speaking of this man, is impossible.

And there is no doubt that it's him. From the Dragon Clan robes to the trademark hair, red and tangled like a hearth-flame, to the Champion's Crest, pinned straight and proud on his breast, there's no way this person could be anyone but the Grand Champion, Lance.

The two Champions were deep in conversation stepping in. The difference between hearing Lance's knee-weakeningly (or so I had heard) rich baritone through a television and in person could only be spoken of in magnitudes. His face was barren of expression.

"-more concerned with your methods, not your ideology, Giovanni. Laws and formal process are there to observed, not to be bypassed."

"Some would find such a statement arrogant coming from the only man unburdened by the boundaries he draws."

That rich voice became sharp and cutting like an Imperial katana. The Champion's face turned dark like storm clouds on a desert horizon. "I will not be patronized, Tenth. This is not an argument."

I myself retreated slightly, not even the recipient of his ire, but Giovanni scoffed. "Indeed it is not, Eleventh – every facet of my excavation is thoroughly legal, as you well know. The only purpose of my being here is so you can try to intimidate me into backing down and waiting in line, which I will _not_. You could, of course, file official censure at the next League assembly, but we both know you won't, as this is an entirely subjective quibble, and you're much too noble and afraid to let your personal feelings lead your policy making as it did the Fourth and Fifth."

Agatha took umbrage at that. "Respect your Champion, Giovanni." She hissed furiously, pounding her cane once. It seemed I was forgotten.

Giovanni ignored her, scowling faintly at Lance, who resembled now a snow peaked mountain, his face held cold and composed, but his body taut and fists clenched. "Strike me down or leave me be, Lance," The Gym Leader said coolly. "But please do not waste my time. I had to reschedule my meeting with Silph Co. to be here. Who is this."

The last part was said so flatly and evenly that it didn't even register as a question for a short second. But then he was looking at me, and Agatha was looking at me, and then even the Champion's own fearsome attentions settled on me. I swallowed, I could not help it.

"A boy." Agatha answered shortly.

"So the mistress of the ethereal is also, secretly, a master observer of the material world as well? Astounding." Giovanni's face twisted into the smallest of hard, bitter smirks before falling back into his default position of dourness. The Queen's thin mouth twisted up irritably like a rotten prune. "_Obviously_. If you require _clarification_, I am inquiring as to what this boy is doing in my exhibit a week before the grand opening. Trespassing, if I were to guess."

I felt a strong, immediate sense of unpleasantness radiating from the ex-Champion, the kind one feels when one encounters a person who does not care for or about your life or even existence in the slightest way.

Lance regarded me one last moment and turned away.

"On your way, child." He dismissed me briskly, and I went eagerly. Almost. A single syllable stopped me in my tracks.

"Stop."

Well, a single syllable and a creeping feline monster, prowling around me. I froze and kept a steady eye on the persian's tail, held out straight in the manner of a pokebattle veteran. The intentions of a persian were discernable from the tail, and this one's flicked irritably, never quite rising but giving a more than clear warning. The persian's golden crest-coin shone dully in the shadowy room.

"This doesn't concern him, Giovanni." Lance said, a flash of irritation entering his voice.

"But it does, Lance. Has this boy not broken one of your vaunted rules? What is the sentence for trespassing in Pewter?" Giovanni raised one eyebrow and removed a thin, expensive cigarette from his breast pocket. Retrieving a lighter, he lit it and puffed it alight before exhaling a cloud of aromatic smoke. "Well?"

Lance scowled. "The scale is different and you know it."

"So small misdemeanors are forgivable?" Giovanni pressed, flicking a speck of ash off his thumb. "Or merely preferable to larger?"

"Has your management of Team Rocket turned you to philosophizing, Giovanni?" Agatha sniped airily. "I hadn't thought you the type."

The Tenth Champion of Indigo smirked. "I'm merely following your direction, Agatha. I set aside an hour the summons of our honorable King of Drakes, only to find he brought me to debate political morality, though, if there exists two words more unsuited to mixing with each other I have yet to encounter them. So. Let us debate."

Lance's eyes went to slits. I recalled reading something once, of the Dragon Clan of Blackthorn and their refusal to turn down a challenge. I felt the shadow of a vast and terrible fury yawn open at the edge of my awareness, like the maw of some abyssal beast.

But the Champion had not gotten where he was by being inflexible, or gullible. The maw snapped shut, and Lance straightened almost imperceptibly. I felt my pulse, which I hadn't even noticed racing, begin to slow down.

"There is no debate. The boy paid for his admission, if you'll look at the stamp on his hand." I looked myself, as if it were some stranger's hand and not mine. The Champion turned a cool gaze on Giovanni. "That stamp is my answer to you, Giovanni. There was no crime committed here today. The boy paid to see the museum, not half the museum."

I could almost hear the man's teeth grind, but the Gym Leader managed a tight smile. "And so I am impaled upon my own blade. Such is the nature of your justice." He said, dropping his cigarette and grinding it to death under his heel with an irritable, jerky stamp. "Agatha. Champion." He continued, and left.

I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until it whooshed out in one sigh, as the persian's tail disappeared under the white sheet of the entrance.

Agatha shook her head angrily, mouth tight. "I knew stepping down would change him, but that man resembles in no manner the Honored Tenth. Such hubris!"

"Peace, Agatha." Lance said grimly. "I wish no airs from a man that unwilling. Are you all right?"

It once again took me a moment to realize I was being referred to. The scene seemed all too surreal to me, like I had unwittingly stepped onto the set of a movie. You just didn't see these legendary people in the flesh, not this close, not breathing your own air. I stumbled through an affirmative.

"I hope witnessing our exchange did not lessen your opinion of your leadership. Giovanni Vittore is an extremely competent man and gym leader, whose skills and abilities I hold in highest regard." Lance said this with slight, deliberate care, clearly avoiding other qualities he could describe. "I would be in your debt if you could do your best to forget your being here. There was nothing attractive in the way either of us acted here today. Would you like an autograph, or perhaps, a picture?"

I could sense a slight awkwardness in the last two questions. Lance was not one who flaunted or indulged in his celebrity status often. That I could notice such a thing meant I was regaining my grasp on normality.

I asked how long honorable Agatha's gengar would be following me, and if there were anything I could do to shorten that time, if it pleased the Champion.

I had the consummate pleasure of seeing the unflappable Champion blink in surprise. He made a short gesture to Agatha, who rapped her cane once, and I shuddered violently as another chill wracked my body. I did not wish to look, knowing what I'd see, but I had to, could not do otherwise, and I turned anyway to watch the eldritch horror creeping from the depths of my own shadow.

Gengar were powerful pokemon, and of the infamous and feared Ghost-types they were some of the most dreaded. Other ghosts could be taught kindness or good behavior, or be trusted.

Not Gengar.

Gengar were being of pure malice. It was something in the way they were born, from the devouring of other spirits; it made them go wrong somehow, twisted them in deep, essential ways no one could understand. Whatever they were before was gone. All that was left was a perverse monster that lived solely for the suffering of others. They weren't common, but they were not predictable, either. No one knew what could make a playful, mischievous haunter crave the flesh of his own, only that it happened, always without warning and always irreversibly. You could not rehabilitate a haunter who had tasted of another's essence – you could only feed or destroy them.

Gengar lived on life essence, and fear only excited them. It had taken all the willpower in me not to fall to shambles when I felt that characteristic chill, but then, it was said that gengar found it easier to feed on a panicked victim. Letting the thought of being a victim get to me would not have helped anything.

The gengar seeped out of my shadow, initially a formless mass, but gaining coherence as it emerged. The eyes were first – crimson eyes with blood-red irises, red on red, narrowed in poisonous amusement. Then a pseudopodic blob of its mass took shape, becoming a foot which dragged the rest of the body from my shade. There was something in the way it moved, the way it was, with no clear definition, a fluidity at the edge of what passed as the gengar's body which could not help but inspire a primal fear in me. The thought that such a thing had been a part of me, even my shadow, even for a short while, filled me with a dread I could not name or define.

In the center of the gengar's body, a mass of shadow bunched together and tore open, baring a mouth full of tooth like needles which no evolutionary process could possibly shape…or could it, I wondered. Was the consistency and composition of our very souls such as necessitated such teeth?

Then, unfortunately, my mind pictured the not-image which I had imagined, and I found myself puking violently on the white-sheeted floor. The gengar cackled then, a blend of two voices, one childish and female, one impossibly bass and low, and dispersed into black smog and then nothingness, leaving only the echo of a sound which haunts my nightmares to this day.

"Disturbing." Lance said, though he did not sound disturbed in the slightest.

"A common first reaction." Agatha noted impassively. "Your composure and observational skills are to be commended, however."

I resisted the urge to spit out the leftover bile in my mouth, as one did not spit in front of the Champion, and did the only thing left to me.

I thanked them for their time and words. And left.

-(=0=)-

I did not sleep that night. I wish I could blame excitement or delirium, but I was very much grounded, awake, and afraid. The gengar and it's laugh haunted my every waking moment. The lights in my motel room stayed on permanently, even when I was not there. Corners that were shadowed I illuminated. I pulled the bed out and removed the mattresses so no shadows would be able to hide under my bed. I had coffee and soda ordered in, a luxury I would normally never indulge in, to keep me alert.

To keep myself and my mind busy, I fiddled with my pokedex, cataloguing and troubleshooting the features. It was a simple, mechanical task which occupied my hands as I did my best to forget the events of the day. The picture editor's blur tool didn't turn off. The calculator sometimes froze. The second generation device was a marvelous machine, though going through the programs categorically was a tedious task.

I was surprised when I opened the electronic mail program and found two messages waiting in my inbox. One was the readme, the likes of which Professor Oak had helpfully inserted into each program. The other was from Blue.

_Dear Nerd,_

_You weirdo. I bet you started going through this and started troubleshooting the hour you got on the road. I also bet you won't even come back and check this until after you've finished, which won't be for a while. Loser._

_Just thought I'd drop in and tell you you're one badge behind as of today. Onix ain't shit. Pic attached, it's me and my badge._

I saw an attached file labeled '_Badge_' and clicked. I sighed.

The Boulder Badge shone bright and proud. In the corner of the picture, that is. The rest of the digital image was dominated by a gigantic swinging cock, animated to bounce up and down while the Indigo national anthem started right in the middle of the third suite, all victorious trumpets and clanging symbols.

It was one way to test the email attachment feature, I supposed.

_Have fun in Pewter. I'm jumping over to Violet City in Johto to so I can hit Falkner for the Zephyr Badge, and then back to Cerulean for the Cascade and the Nugget Bridge challenge (you hear about that?). I'm going for the sixteen. But don't worry, I can't possibly hold you to my god-like standards. Your job is to be there at the Plateau come the end of the year so you can take your beating like a man. If I hear about you doing some stupid shit like burning out or going broke trying to pay for trips across the Indigo League to all the gyms, I will hunt you down and feed you to my tyranitar (yeah, I know they're rare, but I'll get one, listen you me)._

_See you whenever_

_Blue _

That was certainly news. The Professor had said he was going for the circuit, but I hadn't realized he meant the full circuit. Most pokebattlers never went beyond eight, considering the time and effort needed to earn badges. The generally accepted way of winning a badge was beating enough of the trainers of a gym to secure a position there, and attempting to hold said position until the Gym Leader deemed you learned enough in the ways of that gym's chosen type. There was a reason all the gyms weren't just mixed bags – the idea was that a challenger could and should not overspecialize in a single type, and that they would gradually assemble an ideal team as they made their way through the circuit, which would be sufficiently varied to challenge at least one of the Elite Four and win, earning a spot as a champion.

Lance was an anomaly, who had ravaged his way through fifteen gyms in a single year with an all Dragon-type team. But then, Grand Champions as a rule tended to stray outside the norm.

Challenging the Gym Leaders themselves was not easy, but extremely popular, despite the low percentages of success. Seeing the master pokebattlers fight was a great tourism draw, not to mention a good learning experience. The buy-in fee, quadruple that of a gym trainer, didn't hurt the revenue sheets either. There was no shortage of hot-heads willing to try their luck, or know-it-alls who were sure their new trick or technique would be the one to win them the badge.

This revenue was really what decided the difficulty of the gym battle. Gym Leaders themselves were almost exclusively first or second tier champions, but due to their type-constraints, were forced to work with pokemon outside of their champion team. Some even purposefully weakened their battling teams in order to draw more challengers with an easy badge, out of personal greed or politics – it was well known that trainers flocked like bees around badges protected by lax Gym Leaders, and shied away from the harder gyms.

It was one of the reasons Clair, the undefeated Gym Leader of the Blackthorn City Dragon-type Gym, was the most unvisited Gym Leader in the Indigo League. Her battling team was her champion team, she was immune to lobbying as the dominant political force in Blackthorn as Sovereign of the Dragon Clan, and neither she, her gym or her city wanted for capital, being the hometown of the Lance and a known hotspot for Dragon-types, who were all the rage now thanks to the Champion.

Blue was going for all sixteen, and I knew he'd be battling the Gym Leader for every one of them, though I couldn't tell you how. If you met him in person you'd understand. There's just no way you can envision him anywhere but on top. I've never once seen him settle for second-best.

It was at that moment I knew Blue was planning something big. Something massive. People didn't run the full circuit just to pad their egos. They did it to prove themselves. As the saying went, eight badges earned you unquestionable respect, but sixteen removed all questions. Dec-sixes outside of high office were unheard of. Some quibbled that beating a Gym Leader did not necessarily mean the trainer was qualified to raise that gym's pokemon type, but the usual rebuttal was easy: if they were good enough to beat them at a Gym Leader's level, then that was the point anyway – raising pokemon to beat pokemon. Thinking about it now, I'm sure that's what Blue wanted from the beginning. To prove that he could beat everyone, every_thing_. That the choice was his way or else, no highway option.

I thought about shooting back a retort, but decided not to. Blue lived for witty ripostes and repartee. They were his tendrils and dowsing rods, which he used to poke and prod and crack the shells of the people around him where he found weaknesses, baring them open like magmar-boiled cloysters for him to manipulate.

Instead, I sent a short, one line response – _Pokedex email program confirmed functional, Red _– knowing it would drive him crazy to get no response and to have mistaken my reply time.

Ah, rivalry.

I worked until the sun rose on finishing my Kanto map. It actually took the alarm on the bedside table to shake me out of my sleepless reverie, which, I noted, would not be a good state in which to haggle my venemoth hide and larvae. I took a shower, bought a soda which I mixed mint berry powder into, remembering them mentioned as a stimulant in my ranger-survival courses. I mentally scheduled a time later in the day to sleep off the caffeine crash, which I knew would be a hard one, on my way to the farmer's market.

I'll spare the details of the market, as they are the same everywhere; stalls, crowds and yelling. I ended up selling the pelt to a girl a few years older than me, managing the stall for her mother I guessed. I'm proud to say I completely rooked her, the pelt only being worth half as much as I got for it. Half of my steal was in the cheap scalp oil I'd brushed through the pelt, which would undoubtedly would deteriorate it in the long run but made it look very high-quality at the time. Half of it was what I had divined from watching her a few short minutes, namely, a big sister complex, which I saw in the little boys her machop let past them into the stalls for snacks, and an eye for fashion, which I discerned from the longing eye she cast after Solidad, a famous pokemon coordinator, whose reputation and rich attire caused quite a stir as she made her cameo in her hometown's marketplace, her bodyguard and pedigreed slowbro waddling along in tow.

I struck for critical effect as soon as Solidad disappeared around the corner of the circular Pewter agora, getting three hundred idols flat, half again what it was actually worth, seventy idols worth of mareep wool and thirty idols of dehydrated trail mix.

I pocketed the food and took the wool to a seamstress on the other side of the market, who agreed to buy it for ninety idols and directions to the swankiest restaurant in town. It was there I unloaded my venonat fetuses onto an impressively mustachioed chef with a Fuschian accent to the tune of six hundred idols. For a night's work, I'd made what most of these vendors would only in weeks.

The risks were high, but so were the returns. Such was being a trainer. Such was business.

My next and last stop of the day was at the Pewter City Gym.

The Gym was a large, unassuming structure, a large stone gate arch the most decorative part of it. It was more reminiscent of a giant warehouse than anything else, albeit one with a retractable sunroof. Scuttlebutt in the media said sanctions had been filed before against the Pewter Gym for failing to match the aesthetic requirement of their Gym license, but they always came to nothing. The Ainu weren't about to lose the source of their power in Indigo League politics because it wasn't pretty enough.

The sign-up office was as bland as the main complex. For the first and only time I ever encountered, there was no line for appointments, and I was left unimpeded as I approached the dusky-skinned woman manning the desk, inquiring after a match with Brock.

"At standard price, the soonest opening is in three days at noon." She didn't look away from her computer monitor. I could see the reflection of some card game in her eyeglasses. "Standard price is fifteen hundred idols."

It took an effort not to suck in a breath. My entire day's profit gone and again. And three days to wait.

But no. There was no quarrel. I had already resolved myself to this course. The thing I was most concerned about was Blue getting ahead of me. But Blue would be on his way to Violet, getting in line to face Falkner. If I was going one badge to his two, then this would work out perfectly.

Painstakingly, I peeled off the bills and my trainer ID and made my appointment. If I lost, I wouldn't have enough to try again if I wanted to eat. But it is in such things that motivation is found.

On the way out I was accosted almost immediately by a familiar face, still bespectacled and bearded as before. "Hey kid! Red!"

It was the reporter I'd met in Viridian. Richie. Though I could feel crushing weariness tickling the edge of my consciousness, I stopped and greeted him as well.

"Thought I saw you head in. Charlie didn't believe me and went back to the hotel. His girlfriend just dumped him. Bitch." His tone was too fond to determine who was referring to. "So, how're you doing? Made pretty good time through the Forest, didn't you."

I detected an underlying tension in his voice. It was slight, but there. He was no doubt a talented newsman, but I knew when I was being handled.

I asked by how much he had missed Blue. Far from trying to hide it, Richie winced and sighed theatrically.

"Two hours. Our editor thought we were crazy coming out here and you know he let us have an earful when we let him slip through our fingers, believe you me. Do you know where he's headed next?"

I told him I did, and nothing else. I'd spent the entire day haggling, and wasn't about to stop now.

Richie scratched his neck-beard awkwardly and sighed again. "Well, Red, you've really got me over a barrel, then. Baby Oak hasn't quite come out of his metapod into full celebrity butterfree yet, so this is just an interest piece, meaning I didn't get any appropriations funds, which is what we like to call greasing fees, for information. And I'm just a ground-pounder, so of course I don't get paid dick. I don't suppose I can just offer you another ride?"

I asked why this was so important to him. The man got agitated then, shoulders and tone rising. "Look, Red, this _is_ important to me. I'm not looking to tear him down or sling some mud: I could do those without meeting him, I know how and I'm good at it. It's just…ahh!" He mussed his hair furiously and let his hands drop helplessly to his sides. "It's an interest piece. A personal interest piece. I met him once at a function, about a year back when our old editor was in charge, and, oh, it was enough. Gary Oak isn't some punk kid, you know? He's a hurricane on the horizon, a monster in the cradle. People like him only come along once in an age. Look at Lance, look at Steven Stone. A company heir and a mountain tribesman, but you could have switched them or thrown them anywhere in the world and they'd still be where they are today. Champions. It's who they are. It's what they're born for."

I stayed silent throughout this, though Richie was practically ranting now. I wanted to see where he was going.

"Gary Oak is that kind of trainer. It's in his eyes, he can't be stopped. We can only make way or be trampled underfoot. And…" Richie seemed to regain control of himself then, abruptly taking notice of his own flushed manner. He shrugged off his embarrassment. "And what can I say? I may just be some guy with a tape recorder and a camera, but I have a voice. And even though my fucking _pig_ of an editor busted me down to paparazzi, that voice has a reputation. I wanna be the guy standing there years from now saying 'I told you so'. It's pure egoism. That's all there is to it, you know?"

I _did_ know. Oh, do I know. It's everything I know. It's the reason I told him exactly what he needed.

"Thanks, kid. I'm seriously in your debt." Richie patted me on the shoulder. "Let me give you some advice: Pewter Gym rules death, disability and survival as a win. There's a reason for that last one. The first pokemon Brock uses varies, so maybe you can beat that one, but his second and last is always the same. Sky-Eater. Don't even try to take him down, he's just too big and too strong. There's a reason the mountain people used to worship onix as gods; they're like mountains of themselves. Stay on high ground and wait him out. It's how Gary did it."

I thanked him for his words and left. I went back to my room and crashed for the better part of the day. That night, I headed back into the Viridian Forest.

Three days, I had. Three days, to teach a rat how to topple a mountain.

-(=0=)-

Pokeballs do not merely function as containers: they would hardly be considered an entire scientific field if that was all there was to them. While it is true that containing pokemon is their primary purpose, I have already spoken of one of their numerous other uses, that being as a delaying tactic. They can be used medically to put wounded pokemon into total stasis, completely out of harms way, with, of course, the exception of complex pokevenoms and destruction of the ball itself. They can be used for storage as well – pokeballs are designed to be able to capture another empty pokeball and then be captured themselves and so on and so forth ad infinitum (theoretically), so a trainer can carry around a great quantity without breaking their back. And finally, they may be used for training.

I thumbed back the lens cap on Pikachu's pokeball and flipped the recall light on. A bright red laser lanced out, disappearing into a tree trunk and reappearing out the other side to burrow into the ground. One of the great breakthroughs of pokeball technology had been the innovation of a recall light which diffused through solids, ending the embarrassing happening of recently captured pokemon escaping into dense brush. They still haven't managed to make it through reflective surfaces, I've heard.

Pinching the dial of the lens, I twisted it slowly. The red beam widened into a cone, casting a distorted sphere of artificial light onto the forest floor, ringed by a sharp perimeter of deeper red. I widened the projection to about ten feet in diameter. I then released my pokemon.

Pikachu appeared, snarling, but his anger quickly shifted to confusion when he gathered himself.

An important part of managing pokemon is keeping their mental and physical states in mind when going in and out of the pokeball. While it had been an entire two days for me since I had recalled Pikachu on the way to Pewter, for the rat, it had been mere moments since he was harassing an innocent bug catcher early in the day. For him to suddenly be shifted to another section of forest hours later in the day must have been very disorienting.

He recovered quickly to full attention, noticing first that he was unbound, and second that he was, from his uninformed perspective, only a few scant feet away from freedom. There wasn't a second's hesitation. He lunged.

As soon as the tip of his ear touched the sharp red perimeter, Pikachu immediately collapsed into red pokepower, coalescing again in the middle of the sphere.

Pikachu was far from done, however. Realizing immediately the root cause of his imprisonment, he turned and hissed, casting a sharp bolt of electricity at the pokeball in my hand-

-which diverted away at the last second into the metal hoop which I had bought for just this occasion, hanging on the rubber cord I had previously used as a collar. Pikachu jolted the ring once again and settled back on his haunches, sullen and furious.

It was a leash, of sorts. Obviously, it was not perfect – pokemon inside the 'leash' area could still cast matter outside the circle. But there were various ways around that as well. Fire-type trainers wore flame retardant clothing, Water-typists wore parkas, and Rock and Ground-typists were light on their feet to avoid projectiles thrown their way.

Ideally, an Electric-type trainer as I now was would be wearing a full non-conductive suit, as electric currents were too fast to dodge, but I had neither the means nor the time for such extravagance. Usually, rat pokemon needed little more than a steady food supply to keep them loyal, but as previously demonstrated, I was dealing with nothing usual in reference to Pikachu.

Camping is nowhere near as invigorating as it is made out to be in tourism guides. It is more often a chore. I shall refrain from a full account of my frankly boring (at least, for a trainer) three days in Viridian Forest, which would undoubtedly motivate present esteemed captors to torture merely to pass the time, and instead speak on the individual episodes which helped me understand that I could not have picked a pokemon more suited to me in all of Kanto.

-(=0=)-

I set up camp near a river leading to a small waterfall on the first day. It was there I encountered the first crisis of the trip, and coincidentally, my first revelation.

I'd been leading Pikachu around all day on the pokeball leash. I learned quickly that while the rat loathed following any order of mine, he hated dematerialization even more. I couldn't see any rational reason for it – the process was proven to be painless and left him exactly as he was afterwards, but there it was. I guessed it to be a control issue, which he would have to get over.

He'd also refused food. There are many possible reasons for this but I strongly suspect he was just being a disagreeable little cunt.

I had left him to drink by the top while I gathered some brush to bed on top of, leaving the pokeball on a nearby rock protected by the metal hoop. I trusted the rat's intelligence enough at this point to be assured that he wouldn't kill me, at least not while contained within the field – it would only leave him helpless for whatever predator came along.

Though I suppose helpless is somewhat unfair; Pikachu had shown he was more than belligerent enough to deal with most of his kind, as several zigzagoon and one fat, waddling bidoof had learned when they had come past. Never mind that the zigzagoon were some of the friendliest monsters (So monster or monsters? Either way, I pluraled it) around, or that the bidoof had been most likely heading for his dam, which I could see distantly downstream: each of them had in turn received one warning growl before crossing whatever invisible line Pikachu drew to distinguish enemies from those about whom he merely did not give a fuck and being attacked. The bidoof had scurried off quickly enough – one of the zigzagoon had gotten a bit too curious however, and was now roasting over my fire, which I would be very careful to extinguish come sundown.

I had mixed feelings about Pikachu's actions. On the one hand, I had almost seen the betrayal and heartbreak in the second zigzagoon's eyes as it fled away in its tragically comical zig-zag pattern. On the other hand, free meat.

In all seriousness, however, these interactions were learning experiences. They told me two things. One, that Pikachu was not afraid to fight or even kill others of his kind, which was a relief for me, as it saved me the trouble of conditioning him into a fighter. Two, more troubling still, that Pikachu could not or did not care to distinguish between friend or foe. Zigzagoon were notoriously mischievous and friendly, and probably would have aided Pikachu had he asked. Perhaps troubling was not a strong enough word. I tried not to think of what would happen when I added other pokemon to my team.

But none of these things were what I learned at the fall that early afternoon.

When I first heard the piercing pee-ka-chu squeaks characteristic of my pokemon's breed, I thought Pikachu had slipped in by accident or had merely encountered another trespasser. As I looked, I found the truth far more sinister.

A group of pikachu could be heard in the distance, their cries too numerous and frequent to be any less than five or six at the very least, even if I could not count their tails at this distance. Pikachu had even deigned to stop cleaning himself at this point, rising to his hind legs to stare silently into the distance at his kin, ears twitching as their voices reached him.

My blood ran cold. Pikachu were highly communal creatures, hardly ever seen alone. With the zigzagoon, aid had been a possibility – with actual pikachu, it was a certainty. I had heard of sufficiently riled groups of pikachu kicking up thunderstorms before. Near them was no place for a wise man to be with a member of their own in captivity, particularly one who so obviously hated my guts.

I began a frantic packing of camp, stuffing my effects into my backpack and kicking the fire out, resolving to mourn the wasted zigzagoon meat at a later date. I had just started clumping up my sleeping bag when it occurred to me that it would be a smarter idea to recall Pikachu first, lest he signal his brethren.

It was going to do this that brought me to realize he was doing no such thing.

Pikachu was watching, yes, watching intently. A dozen zigzagoon could have raced past him and I don't believe he would have noticed. But for all his scrutiny, he had not uttered a single peep, despite being very much able. He could have signaled them any number of ways, by kicking up a fuss or squealing or sending off a loud jolt, but he did not.

This dumbfounded me at the time, I am not ashamed to say. I could not conceive of a reason why Pikachu would not seek freedom when it was so obviously within reach. But the facts were before me; he could, but he was not. And the pikachu were heading away. The danger was past. I laboriously restarted the setup of my hastily destroyed camp.

It was a revelation, though I did not know it at the time.

Pikachu was a loner. For reasons not clear until two days subsequent, Pikachu had grown up and lived alone. He needed not aid from his brothers, nor desired it. From my long relationship with him, I would have to say the best explanation for this was pride. To accept help would be to admit needing it, and to admit inability. If the battle could be fought, Pikachu could fight it. To beg assistance would kill this dream as surely as the sun rose.

But as I said, this did not come 'til later. Let us move on.

-(=0=)-

I had managed to get Pikachu responding to the leash by later that day – rather then me leading him around everywhere, I gave him slack for the directions he wanted to take. His hostility at the creek earlier that day had underlined one of the most crucial issues I had to fix if our relationship was to work, that being trust. If he couldn't even trust a fellow friendly pokemon to drink at the same stream as him, I had a great deal to go if he was to trust my commands in a live battle.

Pikachu caught on to the idea quickly, and I am proud to say he did not try to run off once. Not proud of my abilities, as they less than nothing to do with it. Proud, because at this point, I believe, Pikachu had already puzzled out more or less what I wanted from him. He was and still is one of the most intelligent beings I know. He knew I was only granting him provisionary leeway, and that if he wanted to escape later, or build our rapport (though I am sure it was not on his mind then), the best thing to do was to use his newfound freedom responsibly. It was a very instinctual, basic, feral sort of logic, the kind that is employed too rarely nowadays.

We had meandered a good distance from camp, following Pikachu's seemingly aimless path. He seemed to have no destination or goal in mind, stopping only to sniff at nothing and mark the occasional oran bush. We did not initially encounter any of the other pokemon of the forest; most were skittish and stayed at the edges of my perception, and Pikachu must have led have led us out of the way of those who weren't, as my death would only result in his indefinite entrapment, as he well knew.

You could imagine my surprise when Pikachu led me almost directly into the path of a bug catcher and his granbull, foraging through the brush.

He was a man, not young or old, skin tan and lanky frame filled from time spent and work done in the great outdoors. He bore a voluminous bug net as long as he was tall, and stood clad in thick pants and a t-shirt, with a hatchet and canteen hanging by his side next to three pokeballs. He wiped the sweat from his brow, grinned, and offered a hand to shake.

"And here I'd thought Honey'd finally lead me straight. Aw, well. The name's Dane." I introduced myself in turn, carefully putting myself and the electric conductor between Pikachu and bug catcher. Dane crouched and rubbed his granbull's side affectionately, where it had collapsed bonelessly, tongue lolling out of it's massive jaws as it panted. I made a clinical observation of the excess snot running down it's nose, a sign of sickness. "This here is Honeysuckle, the strangest goddamn mutt you'll ever meet. Loves flowers instead of meat. I swear he'd eat them if he could. Or maybe he did and that's what gave him this cold. Is that what it is, Honey? Is that what happened?"

The large maroon dog huffed and rolled onto his side, heavy head coming to rest in an undignified slump. Dane laughed and rubbed his stomach.

I glanced nervously at Pikachu. He had to have sensed them coming. Why would he lead me right to them, instead of away?

Honeysuckle yawned, exposing the terrifying jaw his species was known for, capable of crushing solid rock like candy, before rolling again onto his back, leaving his feet in the air and long tongue laid out comically across the front of his face. He stared, upside-down, as if he could not possibly imagine how he got in that position, before righting himself, resting his chin on a root. Dane shook his head and snorted. "Behold the terrible monster." Honey barked.

I asked why he was searching so deep into the north side of the Forest, far from the south side, where the caterpie and weedle were much more populous.

Dane laughed. I began to think that perhaps it was not coincidence that such an amiable trainer was paired with such an amiable pokemon, though the irony of the thought was lost to me then. "Worms? Nah, those are chump change game. I'm out for something grander. What do you know about butterfree?"

The facts rolled out as a matter of habit. Flying, peaceful natures, subsisting on a diet of pollen and complex sugars. Bug-types, obviously. And that you'd have to be an absolute fool to go after them. A criminal, in fact, according to several city laws, though admittedly not Viridian's. Settlements had been toppled by one disturbed butterfree.

Dane took this all in stride, nodding and grinning like a loon. "Yes, yes, all true, though Magenta Town was an isolated issue, I'll have you know. The trick is timing, though if you're a trainer like you look, you know the cardinal rule of hunting – spotters are always welcome. How does twenty percent of the cut sound?"

My interest piqued, I agreed and followed him through the woods. Our little trek through the woods was entirely unnoteworthy - just pleasant conversation and a constant vigil kept on my borderline rabid starter pokemon. Honeysuckle did eventually lead us true, right to a large patch of flowers, the large pizza-sized petal blooms characteristic of the untamed wilderness spread wide for the spring sun. And characteristic of the flowers, almost two dozen butterfree fluttered delicately above the field.

I stared, absent-mindedly removing my pokedex to mark them and bring up relevant data, an action which Dane did not mirror - I suppose being a butterfree hunter had lent him more than enough opportunities to memorize their spreadsheet. Half as long as me, with a wing-span as far as I could stretch my arms, they were deceptively fragile-looking, with their thin limbs and lack of any visible fangs or carniverous or predatory adaptations. Even the markings of their wings lacked the yellow or red markers of poison. But that was all part of their spell. There was a singular reason butterfree lacked any natural predators.

Confusion.

That was what researchers classified their defense mechanism as. A Confusion was defined as a sort of psychic projection which altered the perception of those afflicted. Now, normally, these were very benign; anything more than a rush of dizziness or temporary loss of balance was rare. Butterfree actually used Confusions to alert others of their kind when they came upon large quantities of food, and to communicate. Researchers even theorized they might released a constant series of low level wave-form Confusions, gauging the intentions of nearby organisms, as other pokemon bumped into the insects on occasion and received no hostile response. A passerby might perhaps feel queasy passing a butterfree, but no more.

All this innocence vanished upon contact, however. When attacked, sometimes a moment before, perhaps indeed sensing the ill intent, butterfrees would release a psychic wave of distress, flooring or even paralyzing nearby organisms. The attacker would be rendered helpless, often toppling where they stood.

But it was not only a defense mechanism, as was said. That wave would flatten out and travel far, attracting other butterfree, who would flock to the spot to defend their brethren. All of them.

That was how Magenta Town had fallen. The settlement hadn't been raising enough revenue to satisfy investors, so in desperation, the bug catcher companies there had turned to the large population of butterfree in order to boost their struggling economy. One catcher got careless, and had made the calamitous mistake of trying to make it back to Magenta Town with the enraged butterfree on his tail. The flock after him drew more, like iron to a lodestone. Reports from survivors indicated anywhere from fifty to one hundred butterfree had been on the catcher's heels when he finally made it back to Magenta Town, half-dead from psychic damage and likely insensible to the fact that he had killed thousands with his selfish act of self-preservation.

Being a trainer is a responsibility, not a job. Once you go through the training, there's no handing in your letter of resignation. The planet is covered in monsters beyond our reckoning, and humanity survives in scant millions. The pokemon trainer is man's first and last line of defense against total extinction. Sometimes that means standing your ground to fight. Other times, it means laying down to die. If that Magenta Town bug catcher had played dead for a few minutes, he might have saved the town. He may even have survived.

I watched perplexedly as Dane rummaged in his pockets, removing two sets of earplugs, a drawstring bag and a long needle to lay out in the grass in front of them. Pikachu was seemingly docile, for once - I surmised incorrectly that he recognized the danger and would not try anything.

Dane continued by plucking a pokeball off his belt, and quick-releasing - a technique that involved snapping the pokeball shut manually as soon as the pokepower had escaped - another pokemon onto the grass.

I frowned as his choice materialized, a furry, lupine creature with floppy ears, hardly bigger than my own two fists.

Whismur were one of the few pokemon considered to be practically useless, counted among the likes of magikarp in combat effectiveness. True, their screams were piercingly loud, but only in a metaphoric sense – to produce any lasting physical damage, one would have to stand directly in front of one for around fifteen minutes, a time in which one's urge to crush the annoying little creature's windpipe would almost certainly surpass their desire to test their masochistic hypothesis. In the trainer world, they were known for only two things – their popularity as pets, as at whismur age, they could not even open their eyes, which combined with their appearance made them sickeningly cute, and the amount of hunts ruined by accidentally stepping on or startling one, as their soft lavender fur made them easy to miss among fields of wildflowers.

I asked Dane how the catch was, which was trainer slang for the plan of attack. It was always important to have a strategy for capture, to minimize the risk of disaster, which was an ever-present thing when dealing with the monsters of the world. Dane petted the whismur softly, soothing the trembling pokemon, and licked his lips.

"Had this little guy brought in from Rustboro, in Hoenn. You know the deal with whismurs, right? They call them 'nature's tripwires', at least where I was born. Now, I grew up stomping on these things, and I came to realize that the name's got more truth in it than you might think. Each time they started up their yowling, it seemed like the pokemons always knew which direction to bolt away or come charging to."

My mind instantly made the leap. What if the whismur weren't just screaming mindlessly? What if they were transmitting information, perhaps through minute variations in intonation and volume, or some sort of assisted echolocation?

Dane grinned. "You're pretty quick. But you still haven't caught the trick." He picked up the needle and gestured to the whismur, who was now cleaning it's nose, apparently tickled by the grass. "So what if I set this guy off? That'll just have the butterfree crawling all over us, blasting our minds into goop." He reached down and pulled out another pokeball. "But say-"

Multiple whismur, I deduced instantly. Set at opposing angles, overwhelming the butterfree in the middle with information. They wouldn't know which way to turn. Two at the least, which was why he needed me, but four ideally, at equal ninety degree angles. He gave me a sour look.

"You're really not big on letting someone else tell the story, are you?" The bug catcher shook his head. "There's more to it. Normally, the butterfree cluster sequentially, right? You bump into one, it lets off a wave which hits another, they both start up a wave on the same frequency. No interference. But what about this? They all get blasted with distress signals, and then suddenly, the whole group is starting up at the same time, without any chance to synchronize. And then, suddenly…" He trailed off meaningfully.

They're all Confusioning eachother, I finished. It was brilliant in its simplicity, turning the butterfree's own weapon against them.

Dane shifted uncomfortably. "Thanks, but there is the downside – with all them letting off different frequency waves, to the rest of the butterfree in the forest it's going to sound like there's that many different clusters forming. They'll be coming like all hell let loose. The trick is to catch'em all and get out fast."

Wasn't it just, I mused. Dane scooted over and held up his wrist-watch, handing the needle to me.

"Let's synchronize times. Give me three minutes and then give Tuney here a poke. No need to spit the thing, a sharp jab'll do." He nudged the ear-plugs over to me. "You'll want these."

We both hit our watches at the same time, and Dane rose, making his way around the butterfree clearing with Honeysuckle following in a silent lope.

I glanced sideways at Pikachu. He had been silent this entire time, ears flat and tail quivering as it involuntarily grounded the air around us. I chose to interpret this as a sign of readiness and not impending aggression. I contemplated reaching out to pet him, to begin acclimitizing the pokemon to touch, but decided against it.

The remaining two and a half minutes passed in silence, as I waited, occasionally coaxing the docile whismur back into arm's reach with gentle touches. At thirty seconds, I thumbed in my earplugs and pinned 'Tuney' with a soft but unyielding grip, pinching the needle between my index finger and thumb.

The clock hand ticked the final tock and my hand descended, bringing a duet of inhuman howls to bear on the peace of the Viridian Forest.

The butterfree reacted immediately, letting off Confusions in psychic waves that blurred the air around them and silhouetted them in a slight purple glow.

They began imploding into red energy almost immediately. Across the clearing, I could see Dane chucking pokeballs as fast as he could lift them. He'd probably started throwing as soon as he saw the first maroon light, so confident he was in his strategy.

And he had reason. The butterfree started dropping like clockwork. Some fluttered drunkenly into crash landings, others ploughed directly into the ground. One seemed to lose all connection to proper wing coordination, plummeting into the forest floor, flailing uncontrollably. I pushed past my own initial wariness and threw my first pokeball with unerring accuracy, capturing a mildy affected butterfree on the fringes which seemed nearly coherent enough to make an escape. A perfect hunt, I thought.

Obviously, this was not a thought the universe could let go unpunished.

Too fast for me to react, a chilling series of cracks wrent the air, lances of white electricity striking the butterfree dead in the air in an onslaught of deathly missiles. I heard Dane cry out in dismay. I whipped around to the source, horror rooting my feet to the ground.

Pikachu. He hadn't been cooperating; merely waiting for a chance to strike.

Before I could even register Dane's desperate cry to stop him, my leg was already swinging out, kicking my starter's pokeball from it's resting place. The laser-leash whipped around, returning Pikachu to his container. I leapt on it and twisted the dial, trapping my monster completely.

Now came the hard part. I captured one more butterfree, collected the previous other, and went to face my hunting partner, who was predictably furious.

"You wanna tell me what the hell that was, huh?" Dane snapped. "The fuck kind of trainer wastes a good catch!"

I told him he was freshly-caught and didn't know any better.

"The _fuck _kind of trainer wanders around the Viridian Forest with only a feral to protect him!"

It didn't seem to placate him. At his side Honeysuckle appeared, a maroon specter with a growl rumbling in it's chest, the dopey hound from before nowhere to be seen.

I could see Dane's temper building by the second, in the working of his jaw and whitening of his knuckles. Now, while it was and still is utterly against Indigo League law to attack another trainer, it was and still is a common and natural fact of life on the road that there are some trainer battles you can't run from. Battles inside the official trainer's arena and rules were a far cry from these - on the road, if you were drawn into a fight, all you had were your pokemon and your wits to save you.

And here I was, no useable pokemon or excuse in sight. It wasn't even worth contemplating the knife in my pack - that granbull could have my leg right off before the zipper was halfway undone.

It was with that very real threat of death in mind that I calmly handed over one of my butterfrees and reminded him we didn't have time to argue.

I saw survival instinct slowly dominate Dane's vengeful glare as he remembered the hordes of butterfree that were no doubt bearing down on us that very second. He snatched the pokeball spitefully from my hand. "Don't you come around these parts any more." The bug catcher warned me in a dire voice, before taking off into the forest. Shortly thereafter, I picked a different direction and did the same.

I maintained a near sprint for an approximate mile, slowing to a fast lope until I was sure I was outside of the closing net the butterfree would form. I then stopped, finding a suitable tree to climb and make sure of this.

I felt my stomach drop as my head broke the top of the treeline, looking back. A cloud of displaced dust rose steadily from my starting point, accompanied by the periodic shrieks of disturbed bird pokemon overheard and punctuated by the occasional thunder of a falling tree. I took a moment to imagine the amount of Confusions that would be neccesary to actually fell a strong oak and shivered. No, I would not be putting Dane's hunting style into practice again any time soon. I was safely out of the danger zone, however.

As my adrenaline came down, my mind returned to what, or rather, who had caused the possibly fatal snag in the hunt, and a hot flush of rage crept up my neck.

For several minutes, I coldly considered the merits of simply beating Pikachu into obediance. There were certain species of pokemon which required shows of physical dominance in order to accept training, and while there were no rat pokemon at all included on this informal list, I was sorely tempted to make an exception given my starter's behavior. I could picture it in visceral possibility, the numerous ways I could neutralize his electricity and various ways I could cull him into submission without affecting his fighting ability or trading value.

I did not, in the end. Not because I lacked the nerve or ability - I could have done it, efficient and brutal, without going the way of sadism or wasted gestures. I could have worked Pikachu over with perfect adherence to textbook technique with a face as blank as glass.

But I did not. I was Pikachu's trainer, his leader and commander, and in taking up that mantle I had relinquished such luxuries as snap-decisions and knee-jerk reactions. A leader led with logic, and nothing more. A decision made in anger, however it was rationalized, was poisoned with bias from its origins. The very fact that I had thought of the option wrathfully rendered it unusable.

Unbeknownst to me, this was the second lesson I had learned about Pikachu. He was a born fighter. Violence was in him, as much a part of him as any organ. He kept his heart in his fists, so to speak. It didn't matter who he was fighting, or why - if the enemy was in front of him, then the only way forward was through, onwards towards some unknown horizon.

So it was, that with a tightly reined temper and judgement more tightly reined still, I released Pikachu and returned stomping to camp. I set the pokeball in a high, forked branch, leashing Pikachu to an area below the tree near the river, and went to sleep.

I awoke to the sound of thunder.

(=0=)

I thrashed my way out of my sleeping bag immediately, seizing the thick branch I had laid by my side before sleeping. Admittedly, it would serve poorly against anything truly predatory, but the makeshift club had served well enough against the frailer denizens of Viridian. I scrambled to my feet and beheld a scene from madness and nightmare.

The nightmare: a group of pikachu surrounding us, snarling and wroth with lightning. They kept in a ring around us, belying their cunning, but it was only when they attacked that the madness revealed itself; they attacked not me, but Pikachu. My Pikachu.

Arcs of opposing lightning lanced out faster than I could trace, lighting up the dark night and burning afterimages into my retinas. Pikachu met them bolt for bolt, diverting, redirecting and absorbing the charges - battles between Electric-types were not battles of strength, but of skill; action, not reflex. They outnumbered him by multitudes, but Pikachu would not step awry, parrying, riposting, giving back as much as he received.

I stood still as clay, dumbstruck by the battle unfolding in front of me. This was behavior far atypical of any pikachu I had ever heard of. They were known to be occasionally leery of other pikachu outside their group, but never openly hostile, and never with such obviously lethal intentions like these, whose killing intent was obvious from the full-powered blasts they were trading, enough to wound even through their species shock-retardant fur.

This could not be a singular occurrence. Pikachu had avoided them even without having interacted with them earlier. That was an irregular behavior, going against the natural social habits of his species, which only could have been learned through experience - which meant it was probable that Pikachu had faced these kinds of encounters most if not all of his life.

And so I realized the first thing: for whatever reason, Pikachu was a loner, a pariah, a drifter; unwelcome among his own kind. This was likely why he had such a visceral way of interacting with other pokemon - for a naturally social pokemon like him, being rejected so thoroughly by his kin could only make him wary of nature of others. Who could you trust if you were abandoned by those meant to support you? Who would you?

But why fight? I pondered. Rats were skittish by nature, but excellent survivors and scroungers. Pikachu could have lived a easy, if solitary existence, avoiding packs of his own kind, nourishing himself before or after they left watering holes and berry bushes. And why fight now? He was in the pokeball leash. He could retreat into the safety of the ball easily. Just a jump to the left, a skip to the right, and he'd be beyond their reach, snug and insensate in the armor of his metal prison.

The second aspect of Pikachu reached me then. A fighter. A lone soldier in an army of one. I had felt, I feel, much the same, growing up and even now. Sometimes it seemed like the world was against me, caught in a duel which I hadn't even agreed to enter into to, not yet, anyhow. When you're caught up in that sort of constant battle, that sort of everpresent rivalry, fighting gradually becomes less what you do and more who you are. A warrior of nature, rather than neccesity - I knew their kind. I was one of their number.

But all of this didn't answer the important question - how? If what I had learned was true, it was impossible for Pikachu to have survived. His species of pokemon stuck together for safety - alone, it was a common thing for them to fall prey to larger predators. But Pikachu had not only lived, but thrived, growing strong against improbable odds. With the natural dangers of the wild and his own kind hunting him, such a thing shouldn't have been possible. Pikachu was a walking paradox, one even an unthinkable amount of luck could not produce. It could only be will, but that begged another question still - if it was will, whence did it come? What sort of desire could drive one rat to rebel against every convention set to him?

And, all at once, I knew. The knowledge came upon me a physical thing, a formless alchemy which turned my blood to fire and my heart to glass. I had found the way forward.

The pikachu were electric-types, and had the fast reflexes to prove it, but I was simply too close and too fast. My foot caught the first one straight in the midsection as it turned, connecting with perfect force, punting it like a yellow football yards away into the river. They turned to retaliate.

A low hum filled the air as I brought my makeshift charge-diverter forward, spinning it on the string as fast as I could in a vertical loop. Thundershocks lanced out, but none made it past, diverting at the last second to the edges of my blurry shield. I waited for a lull in their attacks, and struck.

They leapt easily out of the way of my club's ponderous reach, but that was the point; distance. I used the time bought by my feint to snatch my pokeball from the tree's branch, twisting the dial deftly, deactivating the leash. Pikachu was free. I'm sure if it was lighter, I would see something like incomprehension on his rodent face.

The third lesson, the final realization, was not about Pikachu at all. It was enlightenment. It was the path to Nirvana in one query. Why fight?

Because life is a battle constantly being lost. Because we mayflies of men can only become immortal through that which we leave in our wake. Because if the whole wide world is striving against you, every new dawn you see is one more win against it; one more bramble to their hand, one more thorn to their side. Surrender is death and victory is life. And in this belief, Pikachu and I were joined - and in our joining, we were partners, closer than brothers, even if Pikachu did not yet know it.

And on that night, I swore - never again would my partner fight alone.

The pikachu tried to congregate, but I dashed their hopes them, advancing with great horizontal swipes of my club. I saw their cheeks light up with electricity, and heard the cracks, but none of it touched my skin, my partner's own lightning meeting it midair and pushing it back, instantaneous skirmishes fought in the space between seconds.

I lunged and brought my stick down where a pikachu once was, halving their loose perimeter as it dodged, and brought my spinning shield to bear in front of them, blocking the retaliatory lightning, leaving my back open to the others, which they quickly moved to take advantage of.

Too bad for them, that Pikachu was there to meet them and push them back, lightning forking midair to deflect multiple streams, leaving them open to the opponent who had been matching them when they were twice their number, now open to his mercy. I heard a series of consecutive high pitched shrieks and hisses, but kept my attention ahead. My spinning arm grew weary, but I dared not stop - shielding and pushing were my only abilities in this fight. Alone, I'd never catch them. It was up to Pikachu to win this battle. I kept a wary eye on my side of pikachu, issuing vicious pokes to any who tried to sneak to the side and assist their comrades.

In real time, this was a matter of seconds, but it still merited a finally when a bolt of white lightning arced up and over me from behind, hitting one pikachu directly in the face. It was only after I blinked the flash away and heard the agonized squeals that I realized Pikachu's target; their eyes, which were not electric retardant in any way I could observe, from the blackened, smoking weals which had replaced the rat's eyes in the short exchange. Pikachu paced around to side and I bared my teeth. We had the advantage. An understanding passed unspoken between my starter and I in that ephemeral moment, and we did as our nature demanded. We advanced.

Four of them left. They had desperation and numbers on their side, true. But we had fury.

We worked together as if we had our entire life. Pikachu weaved through my feet, striking out with vicious pinpoint attacks while I covered him as best I could, crouching to keep myself small and keeping the shield low. Every weakness was exploited. I distracted one by jabbing with my stick and Pikachu's shock rammed down the throat which opened to snarl, frying it from the inside out. The other three retreated, hissing, spitting, feral in every aspect. The blood pounding in my ears beat a duet with the rising sound of rushing water, which only grew as we drove them towards the river.

My memories become fragmented, there. There was too much excitement for me to handle then, inexperienced as I was. I remember dropping the stick - it was useless when they were spread that far apart. Their attacks became frantic and cruel. The pikachu were few, but not defeated - rabid anger and an ingrained need for vengeance kept them there, where other rat-types would have begged off. In that, I could see their relation to Pikachu.

But they were nothing but inferior prototypes. I had the truth of them, the pinnacle of their species at my side, their rawest potential distilled in purest form - too rare to live, too willful to die. I was Red, he was Pikachu, and on that night we were joined; trainer and pokemon, man and beast; thunder, blood and iron will, one invincible, deathly conqueror. For that fleeting moment in time, it felt like we couldn't be stopped by anyone.

Such are the delusions of human. We thought there was only one left. We were wrong.

My arms felt like hot lead pipes, responding sluggishly to my commands. I had switched the shield twice now to the opposite hand, and I dare not again, for fear of fumbling. The final pikachu was backed up next to the bank, as was Pikachu - we had non-verbally agreed to split, approaching from different sides. I feinted lunges at the seeming sole survivor, but it was wilier than the rest, ignoring me unless I got especially close. It was losing the battle of attrition to Pikachu, though, being simply not fast enough to keep up.

In the end, it went for an all-or-nothing strike, trying to bluster past Pikachu's defense on sheer voltage. It almost worked. Pikachu diverted it at the last second to his side. The impact threw up the earth, knocking him sideways into the water. My stomach dropped into my balls and I let out a strangled cry.

It wasn't a strong current, or deep, and Pikachu responded almost immediately, nearly blowly the rodent's head off with the retaliatory strike. The pikachu on our bank was no cause for concern.

But Pikachu couldn't possible see the other pikachu in time, the one lighting up on the other bank. The pikachu from before, who I had nearly scored a field goal with. The only living dry pikachu present. I could never tell him in time.

It screamed the name of it's kind. I screamed his.

"_Pikachuuuuuu!"_

The river lit up with lightning, and Pikachu went limp in the water.

Denial. Defiance. Revenge. They're the only things I remember before coming to my senses ankle-deep in pikachu brains, my legs streaked with its blood. The battle was over. Now to attend to the fallen.

Pikachu was crawling weakly out of the water, shuddering from cold and pain. I scooped him up and brought him to land.

I can still remember being relieved when he struggled indignantly out of my arms. It obviously meant he would be fine.

I sat down and started a small fire - damn the consequences, for now freezing being the greater danger - but he wouldn't approach. To my dismay, I could see no signs of trust in his actions, nor even a lessening of hostility, as he hobbled, twitching, to the other side of the fire, licking his fur and growling jerkily at me. I removed my hat, and ran my fingers through my matted hair, exasperated.

I was lost. Could our connection have been all my imagination? Just mad dreams borne from the heat of battle? Would Pikachu only work with me in defense of his own life?

I looked back. I considered. I sighed, and I laughed under my breath.

What nonsensical things to ask. The question wasn't what was, but rather, would I accept that kind of lukewarm resolution?

Not a chance. I was a trainer, and it was in that I held my pride. I turned around, took the knife from my pack, and went to work.

A minute later, I stood. Pikachu snarled and scrambled back, but I ignored him and produced my completed product, letting it drop from my fingers.

Two pokeball halves landed in the flames, sending up a shower of sparks. Pikachu quieted down. I sat down. The circuitry began to melt, and the foul smell of burning plastic filled the air. I caught Pikachu's eyes with my own gaze and refused to look away.

This was my all-or-nothing, my hail mary. Pikachu and I were the same, that I knew for certain. But I couldn't make him open up or trust me - all I could do was eliminate the boundaries between us. And sitting in the fire was the biggest one I could destroy.

_Come on, you damn rat. I gave you a mile. Give me an inch_. Tiny, unblinking eyes. At least I had his full attention, now._ I won't accept half-measures. You're free now. Join me now, or lose me forever_. The pokeball burned.

After a few minutes of tense staring, it became obvious he wouldn't make the first moves. Fine. I would make the first move. I wanted an answer, and I wasn't going to wait all night to get eaten by wild pokemon.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my tupperware. There were still some oran berries left. I removed the lid, set it on the ground, and pushed it across the dirt. Pikachu watched it approach and didn't utter a sound. I left the container halfway between us, plucked one out and ate it. I glared at Pikachu and deliberately placed another berry in my mouth, trying to convey without words that this offer wasn't going to last forever.

For the longest moment of my life, nothing happened. Pikachu just sat and stared. I felt bile in my mouth, and my fleeting hope flickered as resentment rose like a wave behind it. Was he really trying to call my bluff, even now? My arm extended.

It was so small. Pikachu's ears flicked once and he leaned in, ever so slightly. I froze for half a second, and I drew my hand away as if burned, my heart in my throat.

Then, so reluctantly, so tentatively, Pikachu approached. I didn't move; Legendaries, I didn't dare breathe - I wanted this so badly my teeth ached. My starter pokemon ambled stiffly forward, and his head dipped into the container, catching a oran between his lips and depositing it on the ground, right at my side.

My breath hissed out silently between my teeth. I was shaking. It was something. It wasn't much, but by Mew it was something.

Pikachu tried to fry it and failed. Electricity crackled senselessly along his hide, dissipating without cohesion. I realized belatedly that the water or the attack must have done something - he didn't even have enough energy left to cook his food.

A beautiful idea came upon me as Pikachu irritably tried again. I took a berry, and groped around for a long twig. Spearing the berry carefully on the tip, I held it over the fire, trying as best as I could to remember the color of Pikachu's ideal shocked berry.

I reached as best an approximation as I could. Pikachu's nose twitched. I pinched it off and blew on my overheated fingers. Pikachu sniffed the berry.

And ate it. His tiny face screwed up in what had to be a rat grimace, but Pikachu ate my food.

A feeling surged in my chest and my eyes burned. For a brief second, I could have sworn there was nothing keeping my feet on the ground - I was flying, fiercely free. I choked something that could have been a laugh or a sob.

Pikachu looked up at and gave me a look that said, _well is that it? get on with it!_. I definitely laughed that time, once and short.

I set my hat back on my head. I picked up the twig and roasted berries until Pikachu was full and curled up right where he was. I stamped out the fire, and slipped into bed.

I wasn't alone anymore.

-(=0=)-

We, the challengers, gathered in Heaven.

The room suspended above the Pewter arena was the most extravagant part of the entire gym. Made entirely out of clear glass, and bare of any seating or furniture beyond the door, the box was designed to force its inhabitants to watch the battle from the perspective of the gods in their realms, hence the name. Entrance to Heaven was not for sale, or at least, not to spectators. Challengers could arrive at any time during the day before their match, but once they entered Heaven, were required to stay there until they were called.

Some arrived at the crack of dawn, even if they had evening matches, hoping to discern some secret or weakness in Brock's technique from the unique viewpoint that Heaven provided, allowing them to prepare the right strategy to win.

I knew better, and enjoyed a large breakfast and peaceful morning of mental preparation.

It was possible that Heaven was as important as the hype claimed; it was more likely, however, that it was just a tool to be used, as any other. Challengers who arrived too early would become distracted or psyched out by the battles of other trainers, but those who went late would enter the arena without a feel for Brock's flow. The answer, as usual, lied in the middle.

I arrived at noon, three hours before my match, figuring an hour for each match to be a reasonable. A bearded Pewter Gym trainer in a pressed grey uniform explained the rules to me as we strode down the ceiling catwalk to Heaven.

"The Pewter City Gym Leader challenge consists of two battles, differentiated by theme. The first theme is 'Rock and Mountain Pokemon'." Beneath us, there was a sudden boom and outcry of gasps. "In this battle, Leader Brock simulates a random pokemon encounter that a trainer might face passing through the Kanto mountain range. Based on the pre-submitted battle record of the challenger, the difficulty of this battle will vary. Leader Brock may send out anywhere from one to six pokemon - you may choose one. The conditions of victory are incapacitation, death or forfeit. Do you understand?" I did.

The trainer nodded, and continued solemnly onwards. His voice had an accent I just couldn't place. "After you win, it is at this point that you may choose to withdraw from the challenge. This will not earn you a badge, but a consolation purse of a size chosen by official League judges based on performance. The video of the first battle is available for a small fee, and is considered strongly in Gym trainer and student trainer applications for Pewter Gym, as well as many others." He paused. "Pewter Gym strongly recommends a withdrawal at this stage for trainers with less than five years experience."

We were stopped in front of the door, now, the Gym trainer simply finishing up his spiel. "Should the trainer choose to continue, the theme of the second battle is 'Survival'. Leader Brock will release his onyx, Skyeater. You will release one pokemon. The conditions of victory are death, survival to three minutes, or forfeit. Note that the time limit is not on-going, and will restart if your pokemon is replaced. Note that Skyeater will aim to kill, and will not stop if your pokemon is incapacitated or unconscious. Note that the rules of this match are subject to abrupt appeal or revision by Leader Brock." The trainer's lips thinned for a moment, and I could sense a slight irritation to his next words. "Due to a recent league ruling, we are required to mention that in this match, the terrain and environment of the arena may change." He handed me a pair of goggles. "These will equalize any lighting changes. They are considered Pewter Gym equipment and property and you are expected to return them at the end of your match."

I held them up and looked through, but was unable to distinguish their function. I shrugged and pocketed them.

The trainer reissued the rules of Heaven, which I acknowledged, assuring him I had no questions. He smiled, showing the first glimpse of true enthusiasm I'd seen in him since I'd met him. "Welcome to Heaven, then, Trainer Red." He said, and opened the way.

Immediately as I stepped in I could see where the hype originated. The view was awe-inspiring, causing me, shamelessly, to suck in a big breath. Hearing the stadium clinically described as 'a hundred by fifty yards and spotted with realistically rendered mountainous terrain' was not even the palest of substitutes for seeing it in person.

What lay beneath us was a battlefield. A green, lush valley of swooping buffs and rocky crags, every dramatized shape built and sculpted with impossible care, as if torn bodily from a poet's heart - this was the very idea of mountains, the vision that appeared when I thought of the peaks seemingly plucked from my very mind and made real.

Made real, and made ruin. The fairy-tale landscape, over the course of the day, had become ravaged and scarred from the constant battle. While rock pokemon were destructive by nature, the long grooves of crushed earth and gaping pits which pocked the field like open graves could have only one perpetrator, who was absent from the field at the moment.

I checked the board. A mid-match forfeit, as I had suspected. Wise. But then, what did that make me?

There were only two other trainers in Heaven at the moment. One was a gaunt man with cheeks unshaven for at least several weeks, who sat in a corner, staring hollowly down at the battlefield between his legs. His face was strained, but not yet to the point of hopelessness. The other was a younger man, smooth-cheeked, well-groomed, wearing nice, but not expensive clothes. He was trying unsuccessfully to draw the other man into a conversation - not a attempt to psyche him out, but a coping mechanism, I judged, from his stumbling voice and colored cheeks. Some people talked more when they were stressed, some less.

"So who's your favorite coordinator- I mean, if you think it's a silly sport, that's fine, you might not have one- how about the Battle Tower?" The boy pandered, his hands working jerkily on his pant legs, wiping, clenching, smoothing wrinkles that were not. "You've got to follow it some, if you're here, all the professional trainers do, and you really look like one, I mean, half your pokeballs are specialties, which means you probably hunt- do you?"

I stared. They shared similar ethnicity, from what I could tell, but they could not be more different; one idealistic, the other downtrodden, one older, one younger. It was a fascinating study in juxtaposition and sociology, how two people from completely different generations, social and financial classes, came to be here together in this glass box above a battlefield.

But that was the power of the pokemon battle. There didn't exist a trainer indifferent to the prize that lay at the top. It was said that every trainer fought the Champion at least once, in their fantasies and nightmares.

I will set the record straight. To be a trainer striving for the Champion is similar to being a bird, flying towards the sun. A journey mindlessly upwards, constantly striving for another inch closer, even blinded, even burned; a ritual of self-immolation, sacrificing parts of yourself into the fire as fuel and dead weight - weakness and conscience and peace of mind. All for an inch, that one aching inch.

And what to do when you get there? How does a bird defeat the sun?

Who knows? There is the Champion, and there are trainers. Such is the paradox, of birds and of men.

Waxing philosophy aside, I noted most importantly that neither of the trainers had brought a pokemon with them, which was good. I took a seat against one of the tranluscent walls and tried not to look relieved as Pikachu curled up docilely next to me. It seemed he would tolerate the close proximity to other humans, although the many poketreats I had stuffed him with probably had more to do with it. I was unsure if his good will would have held as well when confronted with his own kind.

The rich kid switched targets so fast I was surprised he didn't give himself whiplash. "Hey there, nice to meet you, when's your match? Mine's not for hours, but I thought, why not waste such a good view, right?"

I blinked at the onslaught and checked Pikachu, who was watching boredly out of one eye. Apparently, we were below his concern. Tonelessly, I told him my match time, hoping to placate him. In retrospect, it was a foolish error to make - he latched on as soon as he received feedback, his mouth running a mile a minute. In the interests of preserving social ettiquete, all I could do was try and keep up.

Another trainer joined us before long, leaving after only a bare five minutes to take her place on the field. At first, I thought it overconfidence. But then I saw her full belt, and her wide breasted coat, on which four badges shone proudly. Storm, Cascade, Volcano, Hive. Serious, efficient, and professionally dressed.

I looked at my own attire. Black tee, a red-white collared shirt and my nicest jeans. And my hat, of course. Not particularly fancy, but clean, and reasonably up to date with fashion.

I chanced a look at her trainer record when it came up on the big screen. It was impressive. She wisely taken the long way to the Volcano and Storm badges, two rather difficult gyms with unforgiving leaders, but had not wasted time on the weaker gym challenges, defeating them outright through gym leader challenge. Her record in trainer v. trainer wasn't much to speak of, but then, she looked fairly young.

Brock apparently thought just as well of her, sending out a pair of gravelers for the mountain challenge. She responded in perfect textbook form, sending out a beefy machoke who proceeded to beat the snot out of both of them. Graveler's main danger points was it's endurance and hard element. It really wasn't much of an offensive pokemon. As long as you could take a few rocky hits and had some way of doing damage through their rocky shells, they weren't much of a threat.

Brock tried a few different strategies, such as one tense instance where the machoke was pushed under the lip of a drop, allowing the graveler positioned at the top to come down with a heavy blow. The machoke reeled dizzily for several seconds under a double flurry of rocky fists, but quickly regained himself, coming back with a vengeance. After the machoke knocked graveler clean on its back and began pounding chips of rock clean off the others face, it became apparent that this machoke was simply too hardy, and Brock conceded defeat, sending up a cheer, and bringing a tight smile to the trainer's huge face on the screen.

They fell into a hush as the trainer declined the withdrawal, opting for the second round, calling back her machoke. I felt a tremor of trepidation pass through me. It made sense. She had yet to test herself against a truly merciless gym leader challenge, but had made it through four gyms so far.

The trainer revealed her trump without preamble, releasing her pokemon out onto the field. And it was a good one. With a great boom, a quarter ton of angry green dinosaur hit the field, crushing the stone beneath its feet. A torterra. A murmur rose from the crowd, and I felt a rush of admiration. Most trainers went for speed in this challenge, but this trainer had chosen the opposite direction, opting to outweigh him. Torterra shells were legendary for their durability, and if Skyeater tried to grapple, the torterra's fast-growing mineral sapping roots would quickly eat away at the integrity of his stone skin.

Brock released his pokemon. And all the previous elation I had been feeling vanished.

Skyeater was hardly recognizable as a member of his species. His body had rounded over long years to a sinuous black thing, the weaker rocks worn away over time. His crest had been honed to a long midnight edge whose sharpness I could personally attest to, having watched several videos of pokemon shorn in half by it. It was known that an onix's coat began to turn black over the years as it turned hard - however, it had only been counted an isolated phenomenon, until Skyeater had been captured. There wasn't an inch of him not pitch black, shining dully like dark diamond. He was without a doubt the most ancient onix known to man. And this was merely his appearance.

Skyeater was huge. Huge even for a onix, one of the largest pokemon on record. He was long enough that I wasn't wholly sure that he couldn't simply crane upwards and snap up the whole spectator box in a single bite, which was perhaps the point.

The opening bell rang, Skyeater roared, and Heaven trembled.

Brock barked a swift order in his obscure tongue, and Skyeater reared back, disappearing within the center of his coils, tunneling until he had disappeared completely beneath the surface of the arena. This was a favorite tactic of his. The ground rumbled ominously, allowing no-one the leisure of forgetting his presence.

The challenger barked an order, and the torterra braced, letting out a mournful bray. A torrent of roots exploded from the edges of his shell, taking root and spreading rapidly across the turf of the arena. I understood her strategy immediately. The roots would form a sensory net, allowing the torterra to sense Skyeater's emergence point at least a split second before it happened.

That had been the theory, at least.

With a spray of subterranean soil, Skyeater's presence was annnounced...directly beneath the torterra. Forewarning meant nothing in the face of such an angle. It might even have been worse knowing. The Land Turtle pokemon disappeared in a snap of earthen black jaws, and the survival timer halted at 2:39 minutes left.

The crowd cheered, of course. This was the expected outcome. Skyeater had never been defeated, not since Brock had been appointed by Lance as gym leader. But the challenger was ashen. Her resignation came a few seconds later, and the audience along with Brock applauded her accordingly. Her strategy and audaciousness were to be commended, and would have perhaps worked if her opponent hadn't been a monster who was understandably revered as a physical god.

The rich boy had gone deathly silent, and the older man was actually weeping quietly. I ignored them, and focused on Pikachu, who, like us, wasn't able to ignore the spectacle unfolding below even if he wanted to.

I had come in here determined to win, but my resolve could not help but be shaken after what had happened to the challenger before me. I decided to leave the decision up to Pikachu. We were partners, after all.

I looked, and saw that Pikachu was afraid. But...it was hard to describe. There was fear, but the fear was not overwhelming. His teeth were bared and his ears were back. Pikachu was still ready to fight.

And as his trainer, how could I possibly be ready to do less? My nerves settled to the regular vibration of a battle close at hand.

My name was called. The walk to the podium was so quick I could have sworn it hadn't happened at all. Just a blink, and suddenly I was there, looking out over that long battlefield. Brock looked so small from here. They all looked so small.

My record came up on the big screen. There were a few laughs and murmurs. A few people left, predicting the outcome. That was fine. I wasn't here to please them.

The podium mic queued once.

"Gym Leader Brock wants to fight." It was a traditional method of address. "Are you ready?"

I reached up, grasped the lip of my hat, and turned it around.

-(=0=)-

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry #12 (J. # 26): (Indigoan) Butterfree_

_Basic Characteristics: Bug-type, Flying-type, Psychic-type subtraits, third form evolution. White wings with black lining, red eyes, antennae, dark blue-purple body and thorax; avg. height 3'07", avg. weight 70.5lbs_

_Description: A common bug pokemon found in forests all around the world, they are nonetheless a mild hazard to those trainers who panic, with their Confusion ability. Their main role is pollination of flora and certain Grass-type pokemon. Due to their generally beneficial nature, short lifespans and formidable defense mechanism, they have no natural predators. Studies have shown that butterfree can be bred over a few short generations to develop other psychic abilities, though the best results of this are confined to the Fuschia ninja clan who, as usual, refuse to share._

_Nickname(s): The Butterfly Pokemon, the Touch-Not Pokemon, Magenta wreckers, touch-me-nots._

_"...These pokemon get a bad reputation from the Magenta Town incident, but are really quite harmless left to themselves, and very easy to acquire by waiting, given the cheapness of Viridian caterpie nowadays. They're incredibly useful for trainers, as well, given their regimented nature - like many Bug-types, butterfree orient themselves unquestioningly to directives; if told to stop pollinating and wait for an order to deploy sleep or stun powder, they will simply do so. There's no psychological aspect to it, it is just their biology to follow orders. They are born with the order to pollinate, mate and then die. The last of the three is certain, but before that, the possibilities are endless..."_

-(=0=)-

Gas-powered crossbows: Pokemon almost universally go into a blood frenzy at the sound of ballistic weaponry or anything resembling gunfire. As such, gunpowder-based weaponry is held in reserve until absolutely necessary, and possession of firearms is a serious crime in the Indigo League, forcing trainers to switch to alternative weaponry to defend themselves in battle.

Metals: The name of the mountain range which divides Johto and Kanto. In order of elevation from lowest to highest they are Mt. Iron, Gold, Steel, Bronze, Copper and Silver.

Neo-Dark: The age directly after the appearance of pokemon, which was characterized by constant war, strife and dangerous pokemon. During this time, much technology and history was lost, as anything too high-tech tended to inexplicably draw the attention of wandering wild pokemon and be destroyed. The time before this time is referred to Pre Neo-Dark, or Pre-Pokemon.

Shodaime: The first Indigo League Champion and governer, Satoshi Tajiri. In imperial Japanese, Shodaime means 'honored first'.

Dec-six: Shorthand for a trainer owning sixteen badges, 'dec' meaning ten; for example, a trainer with eleven badges would be a dec-one. There are rare cases of international trainers who visit the circuits of other leagues and gain over twenty badges - they are referred to by other trainers as 'double-decs' and 'fucking show-offs'.

Purple glow: When a psychic interaction occurs in the physical world, the activation energy of the interaction typically shows itself in the form of low wavelength light, typically violet to indigo, appearing around the origin and endpoint of the interaction. Certain things can actually be gauged from this light, such as the power of the interaction, and the psychic power of the individual - for example, as the interaction grows in power, more light tends to appear, and as the individual grows in power, the wavelength of light increases, going from violet to blue, green, yellow, and so on. This is not the end all, naturally - skilled or experienced psychics are able and known to mask this reaction in order to deceive opponents or conceal their power.

**AUTHORS NOTE**

I'll keep this short. I'd like to appreciate all you reviewers for your wonderful support. I've yet to find a single low quality (or even overly misspelled) review among those which I have, which, for those of you who know FFN like I do, is astounding. Thank you all for renewing my hope that there is still quality among the readership here. Every review you leave, even if it's only an appreciatory comment, is helpful, if only to cheer me up. Thank you all once again.


	5. 4: Luck

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Chapter Four

Luck

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><em><br>"Fortune always will confer an aura/Of worth, unworthily; and in this world/  
>The lucky person passes for a genius."<em>

- Euripedes, Greek tragedian and intellectual

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In the hundred and fifty-sixth year of the Indigo League, Gary Samuel Oak becomes the Twelfth Grand Champion of the Indigo League, three days from the end of the Indigo League Pokemon Trainer Championship Finals week.

The official end, anyhow. As is custom, given that as many trainers as were capable are permitted to challenge the Indigo League Elite Four during the Championships, the deadline can and had been extended in the past. The Finals actually have no set start date, only a minimum duration.

One week. One week, during which the Champion arrives on the Plateau and can be challenged.

There has never been an instance in which this deadline has needed to be stretched, like the Championships leading up to it; entry into the Finals requires at least one defeat of each of the current Elite Four within five years of the Finals challenge, something few champions accomplished, even over the years. The team they bring against the Champion can consist only of pokemon from the original teams used in said defeats. This, and the fact that Finals matches are universally to death or forfeit, serves to limit the pool rather drastically.

The Champion is the busiest trainer in the League, with the enormous responsibility of both its defense and military vigilance weighing constantly on their shoulder, and as such simply does not have the time to defeat every trainer who wrongly thinks they can break his mettle - indeed, the Elite Four were originally created to serve solely as barriers to reaching him. To put it in poetic terms: If every bird in the sky that thought they could defeat the sun were to come at once, they would blot out its light entirely. So the concept of an Elite Four was formed, and the Gyms later, predators to patrol the sunlit skies, striking the obviously weak from the flock.

This year is no different, with barely over a dozen finalists to the title coming to face Lance. Even less will return the next year, given the changes in the Elite Four and Gym leadership that will come with a new Champion, requiring all the finalists to defeat the new leaders and members of the Elite Four to re-qualify. But such things are a natural occurrence when the Indigo Crest is passed.

As was traditional, Gary gives the remaining finalists leave to challenge him despite their invalidated credentials. As is typical, most bow out. There are few daring enough to face a Champion in his prime, still metaphorically drenched in the blood of his predecessor.

Few, but some. Two, actually. The first one's daring earns them decimation before dinner-time on the same day. The second one is a mystery; disqualified suddenly under numerous allegations, pardoned just as suddenly by the new Champion, disappearing without a trace. Foul play or understandable second thoughts? No one is sure what to think.

This leaves three days. Three days until the new Champion takes up the reins of the League and drives it forward towards his new vision, which he speaks of every day in telecasts. Three days until the Finals officially end.

Three days left to challenge the Champion.

(=0=)

Some boyhood part of me fantasized this first confrontation to be epic. I would feel the rush of a true battle scorch through me, grasp victory through incredible trial, and stun the doubting onlookers into silence.

All these predictions turned out to be correct, though, typically, in no way like I expected. And of the starting moments of the match, I can remember only one thing; my extreme focus on under no circumstances allowing myself to completely lose myself to the setting.

The front of the podium held an uncomplicated computer interface, showing the trainer the basic information of the upcoming battle. Brock's icon was currently occupied by a spinning hourglass, indicating that he was deliberating. I held my breath. There were few pokemon in his expected repertoire which could counter my planned strategy, but those there were would shut me down completely.

My trepidation was unwarranted, as he sent out three geodudes.

_Geodudes._

A ripple of amusement fluttered through the crowd, as the comical pokemon took the field, looking like nothing more than perpetually enraged stone heads with arms attached. A flush of embarrassment and irritation lit my face as the sound of their grunting reached me. Two of them actually began quarreling, slapping at each-other with their large hands like a slapstick comedy routine. I was not being taken seriously.

But then, that was understandable, with my battle record. I banished my fury with logic to the best of my ability - more the advantage to me, right? Still, it was a harsh blow to my ego, perhaps contributing to my later actions.

I released my first pokemon - Butterfree, the one I had caught earlier in the Forest. It fluttered listlessly into the air. Brock barked an order in Ainu tongue, and the geodudes ceased their shenanigans, advancing. They began gathering stones to cast.

I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled, a low note which swooped upwards. Butterfree obliged, and rose higher into the air, out of their range.

Surprised? I had meant it when I said I spent my morning in _mental_preparation. As you know, there are psychic services offered in every major cities nowadays. The last of money had gone into an hour with a kadabra communications expert, which I had spent talking out my strategy with my pokemon.

Don't nitpick. Obviously we weren't literally _talking_. You know better than I do that psychic communication doesn't work like that - for one, even if you could transmit voices soundlessly, you wouldn't understand your pokemon and they probably wouldn't understand you. Secondly, minds themselves don't work that way.

What psychic communication did was transfer _meanings_. You would say you like the color red and hate the color blue, and the expert would convert it, and your pokemon would receive some equivalent meaning, like 'red good, blue bad'. It wasn't real conversation, but translation; a perfect translation, complete with comprehension, but nothing more. Some veteran trainers could do it without any aid, something science still couldn't explain. But I was not a veteran yet, and so, I paid.

Luckily, that was all that was necessary to train Butterfree. All bug pokemon were very quick learners by biology, and butterfree was one of the more pliable species. It literally took me telling it that I was its trainer and it agreed to obey me - more psychic journals called it a 'innate queen-soldier complex', which compelled many species bug pokemon to take any orders given from a position of authority. It only took five further minutes to establish a series of whistles to correlate to battle commands, and it was trained; at least enough for this match, anyhow.

Butterfree rose at my command. The geodudes lobbed their stones, any one of them enough to end my pokemon's life in the sky permanently, but Butterfree was out of reach and then some. I whistled, a triple trill, and Butterfree began beating his wings wildly, dispersing pores of soporific powder down onto the trio of rock pokemon. Brock ordered his pokemon to move, but Butterfree kept a steady lead on them so that they received a steady dose of the spores - I'd ordered him to continue dispersal of the sleep powder until I whistled otherwise.

Seeing that he wouldn't be catching Butterfree any time soon, Brock ordered the geodudes to split up, but that only served to prolong the battle. Eventually, after ten minutes of chasing, the last geodude slowed to a halt and collapsed, limbs falling in a sluggish heap. All the well that geodudes were such lethargic pokemon by nature, and were more highly susceptible to chemical agents with their tiny bodies - a stronger pokemon could have taken a half hour to subdue.

There was polite applause as Brock signalled his withdrawal and recalled his pokemon. The arena was a bustle of motion. Most of the experienced spectators had seen the way the first battle would go and used the time for a bathroom break. They didn't come to watch newcomers or show-offs, 'first rounders' as the Pewter forums called us.

Lucky for them, I wasn't one.

I queued for the second battle. A hush fell across the crowd almost instantly as it came up on the battle board, emblazoned in scarlet letters: 'TRAINER RED IS READY TO CONTINUE'.

Brock's face appeared inside the podium on a small screen. It was part of a function of the gym - Brock was supposed to offer teaching advice to new trainers, the ones who came to take the first battle. It was interesting to see his face close up and in motion, as opposed to in pictures or videos. His features were strongly imperial, with slanted eyes and olive skin. But then, that was to be expected of a clan that claimed to be predecessors to even the Japanese.

"I am going to pretend that was a mistake and give you a chance to back out." He said calmly. Unlike the genial, country boy tone he used in press releases, promoting his leader persona, his voice was now flat and cold. "As you might have guessed from my choices in the first battle, I was humoring you before. That is no longer the case. This is not advice. Back out now."

I told him it wasn't my choice to make.

Then I looked down, where Pikachu sat at my feet. He was looking across the field, but as he felt me move, he met my eyes. I'd told him about his opponent in the psychic session, and he'd seen Skyeater nearly in person while we were in Heaven. I searched his beady gaze, looking for any sign of hesitation or fear. I was his and he was mine and we were one; if there was doubt in one, there was doubt in both. There was no time to question our moves.

Pikachu caught on to what I was thinking after a few seconds, and snorted. Then he leapt up to the lip of the podium, and down onto the field.

I laughed softly to myself. Of course I would be the only nervous one.

Brock's face blinked out. I took a deep breath and set myself, running over a mental checklist to calm myself. Pikachu was fully charged and ready to fight, as well as fed and watered. In fighting terms, he was in peak condition. We'd strategized as far as we could on what we had and knew. All that was left was to let the arrows fly.

I barked a command, and Pikachu began charging across the field, positioning himself, a yellow bolt across the torn terrain.

As my partner approached, Brock released his own, and a primal, fearful thing began screaming in the back of my mind as a god took to the field.

Skyeater was huge, huge beyond huge, a size that was incomprehensible until one stood in the shadow of the colossus. My breath seized in my throat, and for a moment I could not speak for all the plans in the world.

But my pokemon, _my brother_was on the field, and faltering was simply not an option left open to me. A great force of will, born of denial and unknown before to me, rose up and throttled my weakness into a tense buzz which set my veins on fire. I grinned and held back a surge of delirious, crazy laughter.

Back out? Forfeit? Ha! You'd have to kill me to keep me off this field. This was where I belonged.

Skyeater opened his maw and screamed at Pikachu. The screeching roar reverberated throughout the colosseum, causing the crowd in turn to howl in fear and excitement. It was a sound evolutionarily designed to terrify. To a challenger, it was meant to greatly unnerve them, and it worked. Most of the time.

My fear rose up and was slapped down, and I grinned madly, seeing Pikachu continue forward relentless.

Skyeater always screamed as soon as he came on the field. Predictability was the bane of any experienced pokemon battler, as it left openings, and was well avoided by Brock is every case but this. And it was an acceptable allowance in this situation. After all, Skyeater was heavily armored enough to withstand any opening blow, and his opening cry had given even experienced pokemon cause for hesitation.

In other words, for a challenger to take advantage of this opening would require two things: an attack which could damage Skyeater, rare enough in even the champion circuit, and a trainer and pokemon who could ignore the cry of the onix, which was nearly impossible even in biological terms.

I couldn't contain myself, and laughed, insane cackles lost in the air. Pikachu reached striking distance, and looked back briefly, searching for my signal. I made a fist in front of me, and jabbed two clawed fingers at my sockets.

To target the challenger with his shout, Skyeater had to see them. And to see them was to _look at them with his own eyes_.

This was a strategy only Pikachu and I could use.

Twin bolts of lightning struck Skyeater, one in each eye. Synapses burned and nerve endings reacted, a second after the fact. The giant wyrm reared back, screaming in agony. Pikachu darted away, avoiding the great black tail that swept back in retaliation.

The time showed 2:47. Thirteen seconds in, and Skyeater was blind. A pokecenter would be able to fix it, of course, but there were no rest stops in the middle of a battle.

Pikachu retreated further back across the feature, avoiding the onix as it thrashed about. I felt like screaming and leaping. My ploy had actually worked.

Brock was yelling order at the top of voice, but Skyeater was in a rage, rampaging across the field. This would be as much a danger as a sensate Skyeater to most pokemon, but Electric-types were a different breed. Thanks to the lightning which flowed through them, their reflexes were nigh unparalleled in the entirety of the pokemon world.

Earth and stone flew everywhere with Skyeater's every move, but Pikachu wove in and out of them like a golden thread of light, changing courses in an instant to avoid the flying debris. I paid only half attention to him - I trusted his abilities. My attention was fixed mainly on the clock.

2:41. 2:40. 2:39. The seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. This wasn't a battle of attrition. It never was. Mountains couldn't be toppled by rats or men. It was all about time.

Skyeater's species as a rule had low pain tolerances, from a long genetic history of rarely being hurt. Another onix might have been unreachable for the rest of the match. I had hoped for a good twenty seconds of incoherence more out of him.

Brock shouted for five, gave up, and blew a wooden whistle he retrieved from an inner pocket. Skyeater regained his senses almost instantly, retreating to his own side emitting a constant jarring hiss.

The gym leader's face blinked on screen inside my podium. "This was your plan? Your arrogance and ignorance astounds me." Brock's face remained almost perfectly composed, but a tight vein of anger emerged despite his efforts. No trainer liked seeing their pokemon get hurt, and the Ainu man had started the match irritated as is.

I glanced at the clock, which was still running. 2:28. If Brock wanted to jaw around, it was fine by me. Breath used talking to me was breath not used to issue commands. Skyeater remained at the ready on his side of the field, while Pikachu in the meanwhile had retreated back and to the side, near one of the metal light-posts which illuminated the field.

Ribbing him, I asked if Skyeater _saw _things the same way, drawing out my words very slightly to increase the length of the sentence. Talking smack was a well-honored tradition of pokebattling. If you could get the opponent to lose their cool, defeating them became just that much easier.

Brock didn't take the bait. Instead, with deliberate slowness, he replied, "Do you honestly think that my lord has never been blinded before? Idiot." His voice grew an icy edge, gaining pitch. "Just because he can't see you _doesn't mean he can't sense you_. I'm disabling your forfeit option. As you reap the fruits of what you have sown, know that you are representative of everything that is wrong with this new generation of trainers."

With that, his screen winked out. I blinked, momentarily stunned by the venom of his words.

I quickly regained myself as Brock shouted a familiar command, sending Skyeater tunneling underground, blind in the earth.

The crowd was hushed, and much fuller than before. This was the moment where other trainers had failed. Their downfall came about for lack of a single thing: knowledge.

An onix didn't navigate underground by sense of sight. The most common thing people remembered was the onix crest's ability to sense earthquakes, and assumed that it extrapolated downwards. No. The crest was only useful for picking up major tremors. It was not touch, but an entirely different signal an onix followed.

Magnetism.

Inside every onix brain was a magnet, which allowed them to orient themselves underground, developed from so many years near the biggest magnet in existence, the planet itself. In a place where up, down, left and right lost meaning, they relied on the Earth's electromagnetic waves to tell them where to go.

By blinding Skyeater, we had forced him to rely solely on his neuro-magnet for direction. Ordinarily, this would be a disadvantage to us - Pikachu, as with all electric-types, gave off a small but distinct magnetic signal as a matter of course. Skyeater would easily be able to distinguish it and home in. In fact, with his sight gone, he'd be able to focus on it even more quickly.

Exactly as I was counting on. I smirked, and clapped my hands once, getting Pikachu's attention - mentally, I thanked his sensitive ears. Barking an imperative, I pointed.

The ground rumbled-

Lightning arced out from Pikachu's cheeks, striking the three light-posts I indicated-

Skyeater emerged with a scream, sending a geyser of earth up all around him...

...twenty feet _away _from where Pikachu was crouched. The rat made a quick getaway as Skyeater submerged himself again. I hissed under my breath. Closer than I hoped, but still far away enough for Pikachu to reliably evade.

Magnetism. By forcing Skyeater to use one sense for accuracy, I'd changed the pace of the match.

It was beautiful in its simplicity. Skyeater tracked Pikachu using his magnetic signal. By using his electricity to briefly magnetize the metal casings of the lights, he masked his own output in that of the lights, the newly magnetized casings putting out their own waves which pushed his to the side, making it seem as if Pikachu were to the side of where he was. Better yet, the charge didn't last - the casings would ground themselves seconds after, polarized by the ambient air, leaving no residual trace of the deception. Skyeater was a wise, ancient creature, but unless he could see the trick in action, all he would be able to tell was that he had narrowly missed.

Admittedly, this limited Pikachu's movements to the sidelines of the field, within reach of the lights. But this still left him plenty of room to move and maneuver.

This was how a mountain fell. Not by other's strength, but under its own weight. I had stolen fire from god and used it against him.

I began egging Pikachu on, gesticulating wildly, trying to give the impression that I was still directly supervising, where in truth I'd told Pikachu to ignore what I was doing at this point.

1:47. Pikachu struck out again, thundershocks snapping out to the metal casings of the light-posts, causing them to glow brighter. Skyeater exploded from the ground, missing again.

1:31. Another miss. The tension in the air could be cut by a scyther. Brock hadn't caught on, it seemed.

1:18. Skyeater's dives were getting wilder, and I could hear the gym leader yelling. They couldn't help but get frustrated. Every member of the audience was on the edge of their seat. Hardly anyone made it this far.

The second 1:00, all the lights in the gym went out. The spectators screamed, and a sea of red goggles rose in the stands. I affixed my own, switching to night-vision. It was time for the Lightning Round.

During the last minute, Brock occasionally switched up the environment, justifying it by the fact that in real life, a battle with an onix would have noticeable and significant effects on the surroundings. The changes weren't listed officially, but there were grainy bootlegs of some. The floor splitting and rising. Rocks falling from the ceiling. Strobe lights. There'd been an avalanche once during the winter season.

Blackouts were among the rarer field changes, but one I had shot for, acting like I was still giving commands. To a trainer actually trying to supervise, this change would be devastating, trying to adjust to the strange green night-vision and place his pokemon in the giant arena. However, with Pikachu's excellent rodent vision and pre-given orders, it presented absolutely no detriment to my strategy, as opposed to a rock slide or simulated earthquake, which could ruin a crucial dodge and leave Pikachu crushed.

It was a lot of gambling. Luckily, I knew how to tip the odds in my favor.

The thundershocks illuminated the arena painfully each time they hit. Pikachu's eyes glowed eerily in the darkness as he leapt up an outcropping and shocked, Skyeater breaching the earth like a shining black whale behind him.

All of a sudden, ten seconds in, a whooping wail rose in the dimness. A cool voice instructed us to take off the goggles over the loudspeaker, and the overhead lights came on, ten seconds in.

Brock was whirling a strange, tribal device over his head, the source of the ear-splitting flanging noise. Skyeater immediately changed direction, heading back to Brock's side and rising full out of the earthen field, which resembled an anthill at this point, coming to a stop in a coil at the gym leader's podium.

Brock had finally caught on.

Tensely, I whistled, calling Pikachu back as far as I could. 0:48. 0:47. 0:46. I did my best to keep calm. What could he do if he couldn't even catch me in less than a minute?

I am utterly convinced that some psychic pokegod somehow divined that thought at that moment. There is simply no explanation for how swift the retribution followed.

Brock's swinging of the flanger, as I had dubbed it, changed patterns, producing a noise of different pitch. And Skyeater took off.

Directly at the lights.

My heart leapt into my throat as the giant wyrm crashed into the line of lights, tearing them from their fixtures and devouring them, leaving only sparking, uprooted cables in their place.

The logic was as horribly simple as mine. Brock had identified the source of the problem being the lights and Pikachu. Since he couldn't catch Pikachu, he would catch the lights.

I'd considered bull-rushing and outlandish movement patterns, flailing and rollout; smart maneuvers Brock might order to cover more space. Never had I thought that Brock might destroy his own gym to get at me.

Brock directed Skyeater expertly with the flanger. I analyzed the deciphered the sonic code in an instant - different pitches for different directions, not unlike the whistles I had used with Butterfree. It was a mark of his mastery that he'd taken such a simple concept so far. The pitches changed as smoothly as Skyeater turned, rampaging down the straight line of lights in an instant.

There was no jerky movement. With nauseating certainty I knew that, once the lines were gone, Brock would guide his pokemon to mine like a insect into a net.

Immediately, I ballparked the time it would take for Skyeater to destroy the lights (less than ten seconds) and glanced at the timer. 0:36.

My mind hit the panic button, and I screamed one order. Run.

Run.

Pikachu took off across the field. Skyeater went right past him, uncaring in his obeisance. Brock was now totally in control of his pokemon. There was no room for error to squeeze through. I could see Brock's countermove closing around me like a steel trap. And there was nothing I could do about it.

I pounded my fists on the podium console and howled in frustration.

0:32. Pikachu was a dot of yellow whizzing across the field.

0:30. The last light was destroyed. The flanger spun, and Skyeater came around instantly, tearing a path towards Pikachu, who was fleeing towards the other side, right at the first line of destroyed lights.

_No!_ Pikachu running. The anticipating roar of the crowd. The breaking-china-glass sounds of my crashing dream. _NO!_

I looked at Pikachu and he looked back, our eyes meeting impossibly across the field in one ephemeral moment.

What happened next would be replayed hundreds upon thousands of times from every possible angle. They would debate endlessly: planned or unplanned? Chance or opportunity? Skill, or luck?

It was luck. Luck, and Pikachu's own genius.

One heartbeat. Pikachu running. Skyeater behind him, mouth gaping wide like the gates of hell.

Two. Pikachu reaches a destroyed light emplacement. Skyeater is close enough to count the pebbles stuck in his gums, one uprooted sapling sticking out, askew, trapped beneath his tongue.

Pikachu leaps. Three. Flying through the air. Five. Pikachu's mouth opening.

He catches an exposed cable in his mouth.

Six. Landing. Facing down Skyeater, god of the mountain.

Seven.

_Thunder._

The bolt is so huge it illuminates the entire stadium in a flash. It carries enough kinetic force to blow Skyeater's great spade-like head back, hitting him straight in the mouth, stopping his charge in its tracks. This isn't seen, of course, but extrapolated from before and after shots.

Before. Skyeater comes at the Pikachu, seemingly unstoppable.

Flash. A dozen camera lenses burn out.

Skyeater is rearing back, baying in agony, and he is _wrong_.

The ancient onix is convulsing spasmodically, twitching in a way a colossal creature is not meant to. Skyeater howls in dismay, and his trainer mirrors it, barking orders in rapid-fire Ainu. But then the pokemon loses his balance, and Skyeater is falling, and-

-Skyeater fell.

He hit the torn field with a great crash, actually collapsing a previous section of tunnel he made. The wyrm crooned in the dust, curling up and in upon himself as if in the throes of a seizure. A thin red light lanced out, and the maimed god disappeared into formless pokepower.

The timer stopped at 0:22. Silence and disbelief blanketed the arena like a thick fog.

And that was when the power went out.

Chaos reigned.

(=0=)

The power was restored in less than a minute, of course. Buildings of such high governmental and military importance always had disconnected backup generators, for cases just like these, when electric-types blew out circuit breakers tapping into a power line.

The gym trainers rushed me and Pikachu out one of the many low-key exits from Pewter Gym. They tried to make it seem like things were all procedure, but the victor tunnels, as they were called, weren't generally used unless in case of a media riot. There was some sort of shitstorm brewing, I could tell, but I didn't question it. My mind was too exhausted and hazy.

The gym trainers drove me to my motel and dropped me off, quoting some subclauses of my contract to inform me that I legally wasn't allowed to talk about the match to outside sources, or leave town until I received my Boulder Badge. They were very edgy when I asked them whether I would, in fact, receive the badge. The Ainu clan was known for playing fast and hard in politics, and I was just too tired to try anything rebellious. Add that to bearded man in body armor I found lounging very pointedly in the lobby with a crossbow and a graveler when I went to get ice, and I resigned myself to being handled for the time being.

Pikachu, on the other hand, was bouncing off the walls. It was probably the extra juice he'd gotten from mainlining the Pewter Gym power system. I humored him and ordered him a feast a pokemon takeout service. He more than deserved it, and I was sure the winnings would then cover it.

If I got the winnings. Grimacing, I pressed an icecube to my temple, feeling the cool water slide down my cheek. I hadn't broken any rules - of that, I was sure. But things were rarely so simple. I'd made the clan's poster pokemon look like a fool in front of a live audience, and then put it in quite a condition. Skyeater would certainly live - he'd been alive going into the pokeball, and the things that were capable in a modern pokecenter were closer to acts of god than medicine. It wasn't as if he'd been poisoned. Still, there was no way I was getting out of this clean.

With a sense of sickening foreboding, I checked the Pewter news. Yep. It was even a breaking news alert. Grainy pictures and videos of the fight repeated next to the pundits' heads as they argued and debated. Thankfully, they hadn't found a decent picture of me besides the trainer ID photo and shaky shots of the challenger podium. Small mercies.

It wouldn't last, though. Even now, there was probably some bribed or wishing to be bribed League official dredging up my record to leak to the press. If it didn't break tonight, it would tomorrow.

Feeling slightly ill, I ducked under the covers, and wondered how it was that things had gotten so out of hand.

In the morning, I awoke irritably from what was a rather restless sleep. Memories of the gengar haven't helped me any since I saw it, and the stress only compounded.

Flipping open my pokedex, I cringed as I opened the Pewter news site and found-

Nothing. Not a word of me, not even my real name.

In fact, the only thing in abundance seemed to be an undercurrent of frustration with their failure. I reached the bottom of the third article rehashing the material known about me, the writer once again offering a cash reward for call-ins about, the 'elusive Trainer Red', as this particular columnist described me. The past two had used 'mysterious' and 'flighty'.

I frowned.

It wasn't as if I wasn't happy about it, but it didn't make sense for them not to have already trawled through my whole record by now. There was no shortage of people willing to use their clearance for a quick search and paste for an exorbitant fee. By all rights, everyone in Pewter should have known my name, number and damned starsign already. It was puzzling.

Fortuitously, I found the solution not a minute later, as I checked my email. Aside from a few more spam mails from Blue (_Falkner was terrible. Trust the Johtoans to fail at training _birds_, amirite?_), there was a message from his grandfather.

_Red,_

_I heard about your victory. Congratulations. Unfortunately, your perception trick is rather limited in application to situations where you are surrounded by applicable alloys. Nevertheless, a clever move._

_It's unlikely to gain popularity, however. Skyeater is retiring. Don't blame yourself - you should, in fact, count yourself lucky. Your final attack exacerbated previous neural degeneration Skyeater was suffering - even onix grow old, it seems - and caused him to stroke; otherwise, he might well have shaken it right off, being as it is that he's eaten whole magnetons before. I supervised his full recovery, but he won't be fighting anymore gym battles. You chose a good time to schedule a match._

_Just a spot of news. Consider it an inside scoop from your old employer._

_In truth, I wished to contact you about your entries into the pokedex. A function of the beta pokedexes I installed was an automatic wireless sync algorithm, which updates a mirror directory on my computer back here at the ranch whenever you have a signal. I apologize for the intrusion. It was intended to let me keep track of any tweaks you might have made yourself to the programming, bug fixes and the like. However, eavesdropping aside, some of your writing has interested me. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind me publishing a few. The butterfree capture strategy you devised for now, and that map of yours, whenever it is finished._

_You'd be paid a percentage of the income of course, and as particular as you are about your privacy, I am willing to use the trainer name you took when I list you as a co-writer if you insist._

_Additionally, you'd be able to __keep the research-classified designation on your trainer record, which prevents anyone from accessing it without my direct clearance. I initially added it when you signed on as a beta-tester. If you were wondering why some desk-jockey hadn't yet leaked your entire history to the press, you may stop._

_Normally, this clearance would run out once the generation two pokedexes come out in a few months. However, if you signed on as one of my part-time field assistants, you'd be able to keep it indefinitely, provided you keep submitting semi-frequently._

_Yes, I __am trying to draw your interest back into research. I did not get to where I am by taking 'no' as a final answer, my boy._

_The choice, of course, is yours. Your mother says hello._

_-Oak_

I smiled to myself. The deal was perfect. The Professor hadn't gotten where he was by not being able to judge people, either - wrapped up in his bargain was a cure to almost every single major concern I had. Forced anonymity for my unwanted fame and money for my coffers. Of course I had to accept.

I was in the middle of working further on my trainer map - which was turning out more like a full doctoral thesis than a simple cartography project, given the research involved - when my door opened. No knock. Pikachu, who had been lightly dozing on the windowsill, assumedly having crashed at some point during the night, instantly snapped to full attention.

Two men stepped into my room, followed by a machoke, all wearing the insignia and uniform of the Pewter militia, though for the machoke, this was simply a belt. It only took a glance at their no-nonsense demeanors - and more importantly, the absurdly huge muscles of their fish-headed pokemon - to decide that resistance would be detrimental in my case. I did my best to quiet my pokemon as they spread themselves out slightly, one of them subtly blocking the door. I tried not to think anything of it.

"Trainer Red?" The one in charge asked. He was a bit older, and I noted the minute glances the machoke sent him every few seconds, awaiting commands. I nodded. "You're coming with us."

I asked why, as politely as I could. The answer surprised me.

"Brock has sent you an invitation to the Ainu compound."

My mind raced, running through half a dozen theories. Intimidation? Possible. Blackmail wasn't outside the realm of possibility. I might also be offered a bribe to keep my silence, if they had looked into my records and found Professor Oak's classified hold - political influence or not, there wasn't a group in the land that wanted to get on the bad side of the Pokemon Professor. My mind leapt to a paranoid extreme - assassination - but threw it away as ridiculous. Hard-handed and brutal they might be, but they were a cultural party, not a mafia family.

Still, it wasn't the kind of invitation that one turned down. Or was allowed to. I said as much, and the militiaman smiled mildly.

"No, it isn't. We have to leave now, I'm afraid." The machoke crossed his arms, bored. His presence alone was enough to speak of the alternative option to my consent.

Ultimately, the only thing to do was acquiesce and gather my meager things. That they were courteous enough to wait outside as I did helped ease my mind.

I spoke soothing words to Pikachu as we stepped into the blacked out vehicle with the two militiamen. He'd obviously caught wind of the situation, hissing lowly under his breath. The men eyed the joltrat carefully. To distract them, I asked after the occasion of my visit.

The younger man seemed about to speak up, but his elder held up a hand and sent him a loaded glance. "We are just following orders, and I would just as soon keep out of it." He said carefully. A sensible attitude. In a politically-run town like this, it had likely got him far. "If I had to guess, it probably has something to do with your match yesterday. But if you have had the news on at all, you have already gathered that." Now that I listened, his voice had tinge of an accent I couldn't place to it. I noted that he wasn't using any contractions, as if he were speaking his second language, and developed a hunch on exactly how Brock had gotten Pewter City militiamen to pick me up. The officer looked out the window. "The compound is not far."

In other words, there was nothing left to talk about. I put a steadying hand on Pikachu's head and was silent the rest of the ride.

The Ainu compound was walled off, but the checkpoint security wasn't especially strict - too many people moved in and out, and being overbearing would choke trade on the farmer's market and cultural fairs, when the rest of the city was allowed to enter freely. It was more of a gated community than a complex.

Looking at the homes, barely dissimilar from that of their neighbors outside the wall, I got the feeling the separation was more social than cultural. The Ainu clan members probably grew up together, and felt no need to move out. If the manager of the compound was smart, they would give real estate discounts to encourage this tight-knit community bonding. I was reminded again that the Ainu were in no way backwards savages, having in fact become more modern than even the Dragon Clan in Blackthorn, the Champion's own bloodline.

The peaceful suburban compound was extremely quiet, and the only evidence of their heritage I saw at all was in the occasional tribally patterned blanket hanging out to dry, and one flock of natu, colorful clan birds, I saw napping on a power line.

It was when we reached our destination that I realized the reason for the relative peace - no one was home.

It was a madhouse. A giant bonfire was the center of the gathering, with dozens of picnic tables surrounding it. People and pokemon danced and frolicked in unison around the great blaze, and numerous other smaller ones dotting the side, where they cooked meat on sticks and stew in iron pans. Off to another side was a great wooden hall, handbuilt by the looks of it, from which rose a steady smoke-trail out of a skylight. It looked like a barbecue crossed with a shamanic ritual, underlined by the shining black obelisk which towered over the communion briefly as the pokemon made his presence known.

I swallowed thickly. Skyeater didn't look an inch the worse for wear. If anything, he looked hearty, if an onix could be described such. A dozen of the clansmen upended a wheelbarrow of something - igneous stone probably, if I remembered the onix diet correctly - onto the ground next to him, and he scooped it up in a single bite, roaring his satisfaction.

Concerned, I looked down at Pikachu. He'd made great strides being sociable enough to travel around in the general public, but I didn't know how he would handle being in a crowd of so many raucous people.

A sharp rap made me jerk in surprise, and I looked out the tinted window to see Brock, drumming his knuckles against the dark glass. In his other hand was a clay mug, filled with something alcoholic if his exuberant grin was anything to go by. One of the militiamen obediently opened the door, and the noise hit us full blast in the face. I unzipped my jacket and nudged Pikachu inside, letting him ride the pouch. His compliance was a testament to his wariness - while I wouldn't say he considered me a 'safe place', I was a great deal more familiar than the lunatics outside.

"Red!" Brock shouted boisterously over the noise. "My friend! It is most excellent to see you here! After all, I could hardly celebrate my lord's retirement without the one who made it possible!"

Stunned, I allowed myself to be pulled out of the vehicle by the drunk gym leader. As he slapped me on the back, I could not help but foolishly wonder-

Had Brock semi-illegally commandeered military forces just to get me to party?

"How are you? Good? Good!" He grinned sloppily, before he noticed Pikachu, peeking out of my jacket. He crouched and regarded my starter, face to face. "And you, little god! So small, but so fierce! Truly, you are a marvel."

He extended a hand, and Pikachu hissed at him. Brock dissolved into a fit of hysterics. I did my best not to look as uncomfortable as I felt, and found a topic - any topic - to speak on. Skyeater. He looked good.

"My lord is hale, is he not? Far past time he earned his rest." Brock agreed. "You must not think that I am angry with you. I misjudged you greatly, trainer. With so many wet-ears wasting my lord's time, you were lost in the haze of my frustration. Not for long, though! Not for long." He took a draw from his mug, and started abruptly, as if just noticing me. "Red! I must show you around. There are several warriors here interested-"

I interrupted him abruptly, asking exactly why he had called me here. I wouldn't normally be so rude, but I had been essentially kidnapped. No matter how polite the proceedings, I resented being strong-armed.

Brock lost his train of thought, awkwardly rubbing his head. "Well, it wasn't me per say. The clan elders ordered me to. They're in the long house over there." He waved his drink at it. "For some reason they-hey, wait up!"

As soon as he pointed I was walking off. Brock trotted quickly up next to me, rambling about some spat involving the elders and Skyeater. I practically ignored him. I wanted an end to this. The elders wanted me? They got me.

The noise lessened as we got near the long house. It seemed to project an air of solemnity, stilling the partygoers' revelry to quiet conversation. As I opened the door and stepped inside the foyer, the cozy warmth slapped me in the face. I could feel Pikachu's shivering lessen considerably.

The room was decorated with tribal memorabilia and finery, pictures of clan members' accomplishments in the world at large hanging on the walls right alongside taurus horns and mounted stantler heads. One guard sat lounging on a chair in front of a door at the back, a xatu perched atop a stand beside him. It was said the psychic birds could see the future and the past. I could see why a guard would have little to worry about with it there.

"-got it? Red?" Brock had followed me in, seemingly aimless. "You got it?"

I answered truthfully in the negative.

A remarkable transformation came across Brock then - his eyes cleared up, his stance straightened, and he set his mug down on a waiting table. He glanced at the guard. "Ashitaka, it would be a great idea to do a perimeter check right now, would it not?"

The guard looked up and blinked. "What a fantastic idea, _ak-nipa_. I think I will go do that." He replied, rising with a sigh from his chair and leaving the house. I waited tensely as the door shut with a short snap.

Brock turned to me. All traces of inebriated stupor had vanished. I understood almost instantly, looking to his mug. That wasn't alcohol.

"And I am not drunk." He agreed grimly. "That was a cover for any eavesdroppers, which I am ashamed I have to worry about in my own clan. I was trying to warn you while being discreet, but..." Brock grimaced and trailed off. "It does not matter. You need to listen to me, because this is vitally important. I did not bring you here; that was the elders work, not mine. Your match was on the straight and level, but in forcing the retirement of my lord you trod right into an argument between myself and the elders that has been going on since the appointment of Lance."

"They wanted to use him as a symbol of strength for the clan." Brock shook his head, and his voice was all scorn. "_Use_. They have forgotten the old ways, though none would dare tell them to their face. What is important for you to remember is that they are highly bitter and highly powerful, holding much influence. They cannot go against the medical prognosis of the Pokemon Professor, so it is likely they plan to take it out on you." The gym leader looked at me seriously, and with great deliberateness, said, "You have to accept whatever punishment they give you. You can't fight them."

I said nothing.

"If we are lucky, they just want to contain the fallout. If not, they will probably demand some form of remuneration. They are used to absolute obedience, Red. Showing defiance will only enrage them." Brock's eyes tightened, and I read shame in them. "I am sorry, my friend. I am in your debt."

I said nothing, and walked into the backroom, the xatu's eyes following my every step.

(=0=)

The room was dimly lit, and smelled strongly of the pipe smoke which filled the air. Only a fire and lit candles served to illuminate the place, save for the brief flare of burning tobacco. The windows were shut, covered in heavy drapes to keep the light out and secrets in. This made it hard to determine exactly how many were present. Eight? Ten? Around that number.

The elders present sat on cushioned chairs, their shadowed faces giving away nothing. Most were old - some were truly ancient - but there were some younger present, middle-aged men and women. They were clad mostly in clan garb - it was a celebration, after all - but I spotted a few suits, probably having arrived from the Plateau not too long ago, given that their flagship pokemon had been shot down just the previous day.

It wasn't arrayed like a courtroom, but a lounge, yet I did not let myself be fooled. I felt all their attention shift silently onto me like a physical weight, and knew they were all working together, despite some keeping up the facade of their own conversations. One of the elders actually facing me, an old man with eyes hidden under bushy eyebrows, waved a knotted hand at me. "Trainer Red, have a seat."

The proffered seat was slightly shorter than theirs, though you wouldn't notice it till you sat down. Any doubt that they were playing me vanished as I looked at them, slightly elevated. It was a subtle illusion, but one that grew more potent over time. Pikachu struggled out of my jacket and onto my lap, and I held him steady with one hand. I watched their eyes rake him, and resisted the urge to cover my starter up again. Brock's words echoed in my head. These people could hurt me.

"Congratulations on your victory." The elder said blandly.

I was thrown, even prepared as I was. A lighter hissed and flared in the darkness, and there was the soft crunching of ashes on an ashtray. I held my tongue and tipped my head in acknowledgement.

"Certainly, we were all surprised when we heard the news. Underdog story hardly covers it. That starter of yours is an impressive creature. Is he a project of Oak's, like yourself?"

Acknowledging my connection to the Professor and demeaning it. Implying my pokemon to be an irregularity, or even an experiment. I noted the important parts and muted the rest. I answered in the negative.

The elder hummed. To any ignorant observer, it would seem as if it were just me and him talking, with one old woman to the side, engaged in the conversation but silent. I could guess at the role she'd play.

"A feral, you say? All the more impressive. But then, lord Skyeater was the same." Meaningless small talk and flattery. The elder smiled genially. "I'll be blunt." Anything but. "We'd like you to stay in Pewter awhile."

I said nothing. I wanted to see his cards. The elder picked after a pause as if nothing had happened.

"Not just twiddling your thumbs, of course. Your skills more than qualify for admittance into the gym, and I'm sure we could rustle up some scholarships for you, even late as it is. I'm sure a researcher such as yourself would appreciate the opportunity to study for free under some of the greatest Rock-type experts in the Indigo League."

That was the carrot. He spread his hands. "Of course, everything comes with strings. I'm sure you're not ignorant of the rabble that's risen over our lord's retirement. We'd want you here till all that blew over. Maybe read a statement to take the edge off. You might not be into politics, but we old fogies are-" He chuffed a short laugh. "And we worry about such things."

A few of the other elders looked over, increasing the social pressure by increments. Someone laughed softly in the background. The old man glanced behind him and rubbed his hands together.

"So, all things considered, thin strings indeed. What do you say? My boy, far worse offers-"

No.

It was an excellent offer. Sensible. I probably wouldn't have to pay for a thing while here in Pewter. The statement I'd read wouldn't even be offensive or cloying. It was rational.

Therein lay the problem. They'd pitched the offer expecting rationality. Unfortunately, I had none to give. I was just one more madman, dashing fangs-bared towards god. I didn't have time to wait months for people to get bored, and I said as much.

Also, I just didn't like being called 'my boy'. Made him sound like he was my father. Which he most certainly was not.

The room fell deliberately and eerily silent. They were all staring now, disapproving and solemn. I smiled gently to myself. I'd seen the carrot. It was time for the stick.

"Cheeky little fuck."

The sentence hit like a slap. I glanced at the old woman, who'd been silent till now. She looked like somebody's grandmother, with her wrinkles and smile lines. No wonder she'd been silent till now - how else would she be able to drive home curses like so many nails? You didn't expect to be cussed out by a woman who looked like she should be baking cookies. No doubt she'd played this role before.

"That you think we're asking is hilarious. Our reach extends far beyond Pewter. Even should you find some method of passage to another city - which I would certainly love to see, with half the police and militia of the clan - what then? Mongrel child." She barked a short laugh. "I could make one call and bar you from employment in any company or firm. You're walking the heights with giants, you foolish boy. We don't write the blacklists, but we do write on them, adding names every now and then. Shall the next be yours?"

I folded my hands together and waited, saying nothing. She continued. I wondered if my lack of reaction had begun to unnerve _them _yet.

"Choice? There is no choice. You will stay in Pewter. You will do what we tell you and say what we want you to say. Then, if you're especially good, we'll leave you some semblance of a future afterwards. And you will _thank us_ for what we give you." She leaned back, shaking her head. Several ornaments on her head shook as she lit a cigarette, lighter snapping shut with a metallic click. "_Fshaw_. Children these days. Stumble into a den of beedrill, and the first thing they do is kick the queen. No respect."

I snorted softly, and mimicked her. No respect.

The entirety of their 'stick' could be summarized as vague allusions to threats and looking down on my age. No respect. And here I'd been afraid they'd found something concrete.

I reached into my red jacket and pulled out my pokedex, setting it on the table in front of me, next to the ashtray. Flipping it open, I went to the phone function, naming the numbers as I dialed.

1-72-198-567-5678. A few elders tensed in the third sequence, as well they should. The second sequence was the area code for the Plateau, but the third routed it directly through a highly-classified government screening service, only used for the landlines of very powerful politicians. City representatives. Governors. The Champion himself.

The old woman scoffed. "You want to trade blows? Go ahead and call whatever favor you have tucked away. You'd best hope Lance himself is miraculously on the other end of that line, because if he's not, we will _bury_you." A cruel grin twisted her lips, a carrion-eater's delight about her. "You really should have just said yes."

It wasn't Lance, of course. With an air of almost philosophical flightiness, I wondered aloud if Professor Oak would be interested in joining our conversation. I sat back and watched.

They'd brought threats and bribes, political guns common to their field of battle.

I'd brought a nuke. It takes a little context to explain, but saying that political groups avoided the Pokemon Professor of Kanto was an understatement, and a vast one at that.

It all started about twenty years back. The Professor was only a few years into his position, and making an address at some dinner. He made a joke, saying he wished he had enough funds in the research to do more than disprove the existence of Mew.

Cut to the Plateau. Pokegod cults never had more than footholds in governmental politics anywhere but Sinnoh. The most you hear about them nowadays is the Moltres cult raising some minor hell over removing iconography, or the Lugia cult skirmishing with the Kyogre cult over whose deity metaphysically owned the seas.

But twenty years ago, the Mew cult was on the rise. Apparently they were a step away from getting a Mew cultist elected as Cinnabar's governor or something. It doesn't matter. What you do need to know is that they had just about everything they needed to rise. It was time to flex their muscles, and see what exactly they could and couldn't get done. They called on Professor Oak to withdraw the remark as offensive, or be taken to a conduct hearing at the Indigo Plateau. He hadn't been to the Plateau since his appointment as Pokemon Professor, unlike Elm, who was there every other week, moving and shaking. They thought they'd pick on the more inexperienced of the two.

Professor Oak anted up.

He came to the Indigo Plateau.

And then he made the Mew cult curse the day they were born.

The exact details are hotly debated, but Professor Oak knew a lot of champions who happened to have gone into government, and the Pokemon Professor held a lot of influence regarding what could and could not be recorded as true. It was around the time that the Professor's old contacts started coming out of the woodwork that the cult realized they had messed up. But they were too far in. It was fight or die. They started pulling in favors.

What they didn't understand was that Professor Oak didn't consider them 'favors'. His champion friends in government were just that - friends. If he was wrong, they contradicted him. The 'favor' givers thought they could just throw in a little help, say a few supportive statements, and back out. This was not the case.

They were on the list.

A week after the hearing, the Mew cult was crushed, disbarred from politics on the base of their beliefs being 'scientifically untrue and a threat to the rational process of governance'. It was a rout in all senses of the word. Politicians shook their heads in amusement and quoted sayings about poking sleeping dragonites.

The next day, Professor Oak wasn't gone. He was presiding over legislation. He organized a committee under his authority to deal with tax and campaign regulation. Nothing of note happened. The next week was spent organizing research and filing the appropriate paperwork, which wouldn't be processed until the first day of the following work week.

That first day, the shitstorm hit the Indigo Plateau.

The casualty list included a trio of major politicians put under investigation for tax fraud, dozens of tax loopholes closed, five whole campaign-funding agencies shut down, and an exhaustively worded bill prohibiting defamation in political advertising and requiring the use of logical citation in all future legislation passed. The bill nearly passed. Lobbyists were losing their minds and jobs. The stock market dove.

The Indigo Plateau had angered the only force they had no way of dealing with - a decent man with power.

In the end, Giovanni, the Champion at the time, stepped in and vetoed the bill. 'If you root up every weed on the Plateau, nothing ever will grow here again' was his famous quote. He told Professor Oak to leave. Professor Oak asked for more funding.

And that was how Pallet Town started. That's statement enough there. The last time Professor Oak came to the Plateau, they'd given him a city to make him leave.

Which was why these clan elders, powerful politicians in their own right, were looking at me with barely disguised fear in their eyes. They'd expected me to threaten them with some champion in government, a City representative or governor. Some political monster.

I'd called up the bogeyman.

I saw one woman in the back begin speaking in hushed, harsh tones to another. One man in a suit jammed his smoke into an ashtray and whipped out some communications device, beating a tattoo into it with his thumbs as he texted. I saw a search browser on the screen before he turned his back. The old man glanced backwards at the rest of his number uncertainly. I waited, feeding a poketreat to Pikachu that I dug out of my jacket.

"You're bluffing." The foul-mouthed grandma spat, though she glanced at my pokedex as if the elder Oak might leap out of it. "Oak has hundreds of assistants. You might have his number, but you're beneath his notice."

I said nothing. I didn't even ask if she was sure. Instead, I smiled wide, and leaned forward, thumb hovering over the green _CALL _button.

"_Stop_. Stop. That's enough."

The old man held up a hand. I glanced behind him. The rest of the elders had gathered around the one with the phone, huddling around the screen. I heard a video play, the sound too far and tinny to distinguish. I pursed my lips and frowned. I'd assumed I might actually have to call the Professor to win this pissing contest. What had scared them off?

"Please wait in the foyer. We must confer."

It was a long wait. I ignored the eyes of the guard and xatu outside, eyeing the walls. I was in the middle of inspecting the stantler head to see if I could determine the cause of death when an elder came out - a younger one, not one of the two old spokespeople. He had salt and pepper hair and a short, well-kept beard, which seemed to be a staple of the Ainu clan men that I had seen, though not on Brock - public image reasons, I assumed.

"We're willing to make a trade." He said.

I cocked an eyebrow, and motioned for him to continue.

"We're willing to offer guides through Mt. Moon free of charge, in exchange for the signing an additional non-disclosure contract negotiable at your soonest convenience and the discharge of one errand." The man laid out the terms quickly and professionally. "We guessed that since speed was one of your stated reasons for not staying, you'd appreciate the offer. The tunnels through Mt. Moon are the fastest way to Cerulean short of teleportation. We've also reimbursed you for the extra night you were forced to spend in Pewter."

The errand was the only ambiguous part of this deal. It was acceptable except for that vague description.

"We want you to deliver a package to an excavation site supervisor in Mt. Moon. Normally, it would be screened and searched by the site security officers, but your advanced clearance also allows you to pass security checkpoints unmolested. It's a protocol used to protect classified research." I asked what the package contained, naturally, but he only answered, "Private correspondence. The site isn't even out of your way."

I deliberated. On one hand, the errand was obviously shadier than the elders were willing to let on. But they would anticipate me suspecting that, so they would authorize this particular elder to 'convince' me.

I told him to sweeten the deal.

"The Ainu clan is prepared to bankroll you through the next two gyms." He said bluntly, and crossed his arms. I guessed I wouldn't be getting any more out of him.

I bit my lip. That they were willing to offer so much meant the errand was even shadier than I initially anticipated.

In the end, I accepted. Because they had offered me the only thing I couldn't resist.

Speed.

Speed meant keeping up with Blue. I might even catch up with him in Cerulean if I left soon enough. Not to mention getting rid of my money problems. I accepted, and agreed to head out the next day.

Mt. Moon. There are few days I remember more vividly than that day.

It was the first time I killed a man.

(=0=)

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry # 95 ( J. #62 ): Onix._

_Basic Characteristics: Rock-type, ground-type, dragon-subtraits. Environment-conditional evolution (see steelix). Lifespan unknown; oldest living specimen estimated 6-7 centuries old (see Skyeater, Ainu). Long segmented stone body, angular, spade-like head. Avg. height 28'11, avg. weight 463.0 lbs (small sample group, data subject to change)._

_Description: Enormous, ancient pokemon of stone. Very rarely seen due to their tendency to tunnel deep, close to planet core. These pokemon can sense earthquakes with the blade-like crest which protrudes from their craniums; however, their main method of subterranean navigation is by electromagnetic wave, implementing a neural magnet in their brain, which acts as a compass and helps them travel in places where conventional directions lose meaning. They are known to be able to digest near anything, a member of the 'True Omnivore' club, as specialists dub it, alongside such pokemon as the snorlax and tyranitar lines._

_Nicknames: The Rock Snake Pokemon, wyrms, dirt-dragons, Groudonspawn (See Groudon, see mythology of Hoenn)._

_"...all in all, it's not surprising they're considered gods by some of the indigenous peoples of the regions. They certainly meet the criteria - powerful beyond belief, ancient beyond reckoning and wise beyond measure. A great deal of researchers working with psychics are always clamoring to connect with them, and gain some glimpse of the unimagined past, but of course, the natives guard their pseudo-deities jealously..._

(=0=)

Ak-nipa : A nickname combining the Ainu words for 'younger brother' and 'chief'. Considering the Ainu elders abolished the position of chief after a disagreement which nearly split the clan, this moniker is rebellious, and more than a little suggestive.

Indigo Crest : A palm-sized metal blue plate emblazoned with the symbol of the Indigo League, forged by the First Champion, and worn by every Champion since. It's been called the Champion's Crest and the Beating Heart of Indigo, and it symbolizes the line of warlords who've bore the title Champion, and the people they've protected, unbroken since the founding, though some argue that it is instead representative of the entire Game itself, and that it conveys an immortality of sorts upon its bearer. It is the only 'crown jewel' the pragmatic Indigoans acknowledge, and is worn by the Champion at all times except the Finals, where it is hung above the stadium until the last day.

(=0=)

**AUTHORS NOTE: **I'm in school. I have schoolwork. Sorry for the wait. Next chapter will be an interlude, from Blue's POV.


	6. Interlude: He Who Saw The Deep

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

(=0=)

Interlude : He Who Saw The Deep

(=0=)

_Whither rovest thou?  
>The life thou pursuest thou shalt not find.<br>When the gods created mankind,  
>Death for him they set aside,<br>Life in their own hands retaining._

-excerpt recovered and translated from ancient cuneiform tablet. Source: The Vittore Art Gallery.

(=0=)

"My pokemon team? Eh, it's kind of a long story, but hey, it's your interview. The first was Blacky, here."

(=0=)

I raised an eyebrow at the monster, which snuffled and pushed it - her, herself - into my hand insistently. To the side of me, the elderly researcher watched intently.

"This is not a larvitar." I observed astutely, taking in the downy fur, adorable eyes and fluffy tail.

"I informed you weeks ago that you would not be getting one." Gramps retorted, and turned his attention back to the central computer, which glared obnoxiously even in the well-lit room. "Anaximander, the file from this morning. "

"Yes, Professor." The porygon responded, in a cheerful male voice. A window appeared and expanded, filling the enormous screen with lines of programming code. I noted the program name: Dexter. The new pokedex operating system. Gramps was gonna give me the pokedex v2 beta in a few weeks, as a graduation present. I wasn't supposed to know.

But then, as far as secrets went, there were worse ones to know about. Like the fact that Gramps and Elm had decided for the AI to be male instead of female over the course of a big ol' bitch-fight about a dozen emails long. Or about the encrypted document recovered from a Hoenn black op cell captured in Saffron which Gramps still hadn't cracked. Or the go-ahead for distortion-dunking and psychic torture on the prisoners he'd given, oh, about thirty-nine hours ago.

Of course, you could only possibly learn such things from the Pokemon Professor's personal computer, to which only he had access. I mean, it's not like anyone could hack into a computer protected by _the_greatest poketechnological mind in the world and set up an online dummy system where they could peruse the contents at their leisure. Certainly not some twelve year old punk kid on a lazy afternoon when there was nothing good on tv.

You'll strike that from the transcript, you understand.

"Are you sure I can't argue you up to a dratini?" I asked seriously. I even put on my super serious face and everything. Gramps ignored me, squinting at the characters on the screen. "A beldum."

"No."

I opened my mouth to protest and his personal assistant ducked his head in. I took him in with a glance; well-groomed, ironed clothes, military posture. Manicured fingernails. Another spy from the ACE. They always were, somehow.

I sneered.

Yeah, you heard me. Ace Trainers are a disgrace to the calling. All that 'the best of us to serve the best' bullshit propaganda slogans you see on the site? Lies. Lies and _slander_, I should say. 'As good as an Ace Trainer', ha! I'll kick the ass of any trainer who says that to me. _That _you can put on record.

Going off on a tangent? Yeah, maybe a little.

But no. The ACE, and the Ace Trainers? Fuck those guys. Those guys are real trainers like eunuchs are real men.

"The morning itinerary is ready, sir. In addition, you have Dr. Fuji, Leader Blaine and Leader Sabrina on hold."

I blinked. It was morning already? Shit. I checked my watch. That would make this thirty-three hours I'd been awake.

Insomnia? Please. Just good old Oak genes. You should see my sister and her hours. Daisy could starve a room full of drowzees.

Gramps frowned. "I know what Blaine and the doctor are calling about. Tell Blaine I want a full psych workup before I make a decision. In addition, tell him I'm not interested in playing a mythology student. Tell the doctor that I haven't looked his resume over. What does Sabrina want?"

Well, Gramps was in full Pokemon Professor mode now, raise anchor and full-speed ahead. He wouldn't be free for me to wheedle until later. I whistled experimentally at the eevee, who perked up and leapt down from the table to follow me.

"She wants to meet. She wouldn't say why."

Well, she was trained, at the very least. I left the inner sanctum and listened to my grandfather's voice fade in the distance.

"Schedule her for 1:50."

(=0=)

My phone rings. I know exactly who it is.

"Your starter?" She says, without preamble.

"Eevee." I respond.

"You'll want an espeon or umbreon if you want to bring it to the professional level. And you will. It's considered bad luck, cold-hearted and a dozen other negative things to rotate your starter pokemon out of your lineup. Sentimentality and superstition, but you can't afford to rile it in this case. Bad PR. I recommend the espeon. Dark-types make people uncomfortable."

I pause. I must not have conveyed my incredulity. I tried again, clearly enunciating the 'this is bullshit' part. "_Eevee_."

Typically, she ignored it. "I heard you. Is there interference on your end?" I sighed and rubbed my temples.

Fucking ninjas.

"There's interference in my _plan_, Aya. You assured me that a larvitar was going to magically become available around the time I asked Gramps for one. And yet I find myself strangely lacking a tiny indestructible midget dinosaur. Aya, where is my tiny indestructible midget dinosaur?"

"The Pokemon Professor assigned it back to the research project I took it from. I'll check, but your starter is probably in the registry now, it's official. You'll have to make due."

I bit back an imaginative blasphemy. Imperial, old-fashioned types like Aya were prickly as cacnea - actually losing my temper now would almost certainly undo over two years worth of work done schmoozing myself onto good terms with her. I only got away with talking like a punk because Aya liked to think of herself as modern.

It would pay off eventually with even greater dividends. Apart from officially being the Executive Manager for the Promotion of the Japanese Heritage, or some other mouthy thing, Aya Himura happened to be the younger sister of Koga - _the _Koga, ninja master and Elite Four. I would move in a little closer, make connections with a few of her peers, and then a dialogue with the Elite Four member would be firmly within reach. I could already see the ending.

My pants rustled and I looked down. The eevee was rubbing against my leg. I contemplated a multitude of responses, most that would have upset a monster-hugger quite terribly to learn of.

I was upset, dammit. Larvitar was almost the perfect counter to the Pewter Gym's challenge, one it'd taken me years to finally come up with. With it's diamond hard skin, resistance to pressure and ability to eat through solid granite given time, the dangers of the second stage would disappear. Skyeater couldn't eat it, break it or bite it in two, and after that, in eight months of solid eating, it'd be a tyranitar, fit to challenge the Champion himself. There were two tyranitars in last year's Finalist teams, damn it all!

It was a giant, mountain-punching dinosaur. Really, there was no reason not to want one.

I looked down at the button-nosed little fur-ball and sighed. Lady Luck, why desert me now?

(=0=)

"And now, we commence the Issue of Challenge. Let us welcome these promising new trainers to the circuit!" Will boomed, sweeping a hand at me and the four other trainers with me.

I tried not to squint as the sun glared down at my eyes, and slapped on a grin at the applauding crowd, two parts rougish one part charming.

It was a real fancy-schmancy sort of deal. The Young Arcanines League was the official funder. The stated aim was to support young pokebattlers on the way to greatness, but the real purpose was plain - headhunting. The League was the pet project of the high-powered trainer agent at the podium, Will, who managed nearly a dozen upper-tier champions and countless others out of his firm on the Plateau. He was an ex-trainer himself, a Finalist of several years. No one was really sure why he'd quit - before Lance, he had been discussed as a Grand Champion prospect.

I personally didn't care about his hidden ambitions or his tendency to dress like a stage magician. The Young Arcanines did what it was designed to do - catapult promising contenders as fast as it could to a money-making level. That was what I needed. No matter how awesome I was - and I got up and pissed golden victory in the morning - I wasn't going to beat Lance's record without a serious backer. The Champ in his time had the whole Dragon Clan.

I had this gaydar-pinging nutjob. At least I hadn't signed any contracts.

Still, it was irritating. I'd have much rather thrown my challenge ball in the Viridian City falls on my own terms - it was a personal sort of thing - but Will himself had invited me. There were certain social faux pas that simply had to be avoided. I scowled down at the engraved pokeball in my lap, where my name was engraved in gold filigree, right above a smaller _Young Arcanines League_. I only knew one other person at this retarded growlithe-and-ponyta show, and barely at that.

"Akiha Green!"

The blank-faced girl stood up and put her challenge ball in the catapult, a small thing on stage that had been calibrated to put the ball in the water without the undignified spectacle of each trainer trying to throw it from here. I sneered, at the stage and the girl. It wasn't that far, and I'd thought better of her.

The girl was the daughter of Sheriff Green back in Pallet, and the closest thing to competent the school had produced (Red didn't count, since he was way past just _competent_). Admittedly, I didn't really know her all that well. I'd just noticed she was good. The longest conversation I had with her was at the graduation after-party, and at the time I'd been drunk and trying to convince her to join this slutty - well, drunk - hot girl who was already a closed deal in a threesome with yours truly. It ended with the slutty-type I had captured somehow finding her atrophied sense of decency because of it and escaping my clutches, which led to me drinking myself into enough of a coma that I ended up stumbling home with a rather atrocious electrode of a female. Ick. But hey, no one ever died from wanting too much.

I smirked in remembrance. It's not like it was a total loss. She ended up hooking up with Red, and that was hilarious for weeks afterwards.

What else? About her as a person, I could remember her occasional visits to the ranch with her father; the sheriff had been tight with Gramps, though I never did find out why. I called her Leaf once as a kid because it was her name in imperial - Akiha meant autumn leaf. Never did again - Leaf is a dumb name. I'd heard (drunkenly, from her, while my eyes were halfway down her shirt) that she had gotten some security offer straight out of school. Other than that, I only knew her as a girl who never fit or joined any cliques. Kind of like Red, if he sucked and had a vagina.

The catapult launched its payload with a muffled thump, and the audience applauded politely. I noticed her burly, mustachioed father in one of the front rows, wiping his eyes proudly. I'd never seen the old sheriff in a suit before. It was an experience.

I zoned out as the next trainer was called, glancing down at the eevee in my lap, who was good-naturedly keeping still, bright eyes surveying the scene delightedly. It was nearly sickening how cheerful the thing was. I still hadn't named it.

Aya had suggested evolving it into an espeon. Given the creature's age, I judged that the a few more weeks in strong sunlight like today would probably do for activating-

"An eevee? Nice starter. I'm sure it'll be a hit at the beauty contest when you quit training." A snide voice cut into my thoughts. I glanced to my right. The trainer was about my age, weedy, with an expression that told me it wasn't a compliment. By his side, a bayleef nosed the carpet, looking for grass. A bayleef - no wonder I felt so fucking irritated.

Keeping a picture perfect smile on my face, I responded, "Oh my gosh, I didn't know they offered scholarships to special needs trainers too! Did you ride here on the short ponyta?"

He ignored my jab, and jerked his chin at my eevee. "They may be good for quick elemental harrying in their evolutions, but they fall off in high competition where you're forced to stand and trade." He smiled nastily. "I guess the Oak name isn't all it's hyped up to be if they're dumb enough to try bring lab pokemon into the arena."

I held the smile as I ticked off several boxes in my head. Insulting my family, skills, talking like he knew better than me, _and _expecting me to fall for his pathetic attempts at baiting, check. Even with a noseful of bayleef musk jazzing me up I could see his ploy coming from a mile away.

I was surprised to find myself pissed by his jab at my pokemon. Even if I was somewhat unenthused by her myself, you didn't insult a man's starter - it just wasn't done. I wasn't about to let anyone but me talk smack about my furry little disappointment.

"Alright, you shit excuse for a mareep-fucking hedge trainer, you want to talk strategy?" I replied pleasantly, in an even tone completely unsuited for the bombs I was dropping. "You've been feeding that bayleaf expensive product to accelerate its growth. Maybe not candy - you might not be that stupid - but high class fertilizer, Celadon Gym stuff. You probably saw that Johto Finalist whats-her-name two years back with the meganium who wrecked half Bruno's team with doping pheromones and were inspired to pay out the ass for a chikorita, I'm guessing?"

The catapult swung like a pendulum. The trainer next to me sat down. I'd be next.

"Here's the catch - meganiums don't actually have any killer instinct worth a crap. They are fucking worthless at champion-level, let alone at the big shabang itself. That lady got around it because she'd been training it since its first evolution to fight like a houndoom and tank like a golem, and even then she only just evolved it from a bayleef in time for the match, so it'd have the all the aggression-suppressing hormones and other shit-ruining powders that confused Bruno's fighters into shooting themselves in the foot, _without_ the peaceful herbivore nature that takes over when they reach that age. And even _with _all that preparation she still rotated it out the next year because it got too mild. I think I see some flowering around the edges of yours, so it won't be long now. It's really sad when you step back and look at it. All that money you blew, and the most you've managed to do is fuck yourself over."

I gave him the patented Oak fuck-you smirk, perfected over generations as the pre-emptive fuel for epic burns and timeless one-liners.

"A _gay_leef? Nice starter." I said. "I'm sure it'll be a big hit at the oddish farm when you _fail _training."

"Gary Oak!"

I stood up as my name was called, and the trainer shot to his feet with fists clenched, forgetting himself in the moment. Will tutted at the microphone.

"Now now, it'll be your turn very soon. Take a seat."

There was laughter in the crowd, and the weedy trainer flushed. He glared at me with murder in his eyes as he sat. I smiled wider, and quipped to the audience, "I thought you country trainers were all easy-going!", earning a few more laughs and a look that would have left me as paste across three regions if he could have weaponized it.

I glanced at his bayleef. Honestly, I felt sorta bad for it. It had been used as fodder for a half-baked strategy, and now it'd probably end up sold to some new owner, or even released into the wild, which was as good as death for domesticated pokemon. All for doing what its trainer wanted.

Looking down at my eevee, I admitted that I definitely could have had it worse than I did.

Will had prepared some congratulation for me personally, citing some meeting between us I didn't remember at all, and finished it shortly, gesturing at the catapult.

I waved to the crowd, reached out-

-and pivoting on my heel, threw my pokeball as hard as I could. My aim, naturally, was true, and I watched the pokeball drop into the water, donning a mischievous smile as I gave a comical bow to the audience, enjoying the increased applause.

What can I say? I like to put on a show.

Will cornered me after the ceremony near the refreshments. As I saw him approach, I contemplated tossing my water on him in order to make my escape, but ultimately decided against it - it wasn't nearly consecrated enough to melt him, and he was a harlequin, not a witch besides.

"You're a very cheeky kid, Gary." He greeted me, overly warm and far too familiar, like a bear-hug from a hobo. I repressed the urge to run off and take a shower and smiled.

"Sorry. It was getting kinda stuffy for me up there." I shrugged, not too sheepish. "I hope I didn't cause too much trouble."

I more or less (no homo) had Will pegged - he was the type that had been surrounded by enough yes-men for enough time that he'd convinced himself that people honestly liked to get along with him, just to deal with the falsehood, and changed his personality to fit that persona. It wasn't uncommon among high-powered agents and politicians. It would be a mistake to underestimate Will, of course; he could still get nasty in a flash if he felt like someone was faking. But the best way to get along with his kind was just to be decently friendly back, and silently endure their over-enthusiastic and always creepy response.

"Oh, it's no problem, no problem at all. The people loved it." He touched my shoulder in a way that was probably supposed to be reassuring but ended up as a caress. Will plucked a champagne flute from the table and swirled it once, eyeing me predatorily through his theater mask. "Will I be seeing you at my party tonight?"

_No. Fuck no. If my 'no' was a pokemon, it'd be a legendary, made entirely out of hyper beams and hate, annihilating entire regions at a time, leaving only blasted craters in its wake, all shaped like the word NO._

"I wish." I replied, smiling ruefully. "But I've got to get on the road. So sorry."

Will didn't respond for a moment, staring into his drink, before leaning in closer, a conspiratorial smile stretching to fill his entire face. "You're special, you know."

A drop of sweat trailed lazily down my temple. "Really."

"Really." The ex-Finalist confirmed, letting his glass dangle in a limp wrist. I had the unpleasant image of him studying me, like a painting in an exhibit. "The others, they'll do well, better than most. One or two will be champions someday. But you...there's something _about _you, something outside your grandfather's shadow. It's not just my eye you've caught, you know. There are others interested in seeing if the terrible might of Oak merely skipped a generation. A lot of people were a bit let down when your father failed to live up to his predecessor."

"My father was a good man." It slipped out before I could stop it, fiercer and more hoarse than I intended.

"Many men are good. Precious few are great." Will clucked his tongue and stared, his voice filled with a unsettling curiosity. "To see where you are in a year's time...there are quite a few who'd pay to see that. Will you escape the Professor's long shadow? It's why you took a trainer name rather than your own, right? An odd name, Blue. Is it a joke?"

"It's not a joke." I replied quietly. I'd underestimated Will. I couldn't risk trying to handle him without being handled myself - in a short conversation he'd already found my softer spots and was prodding at them. That was the problem with disguises. Any facade I put up would inevitably contain some element of truth.

Will shrugged. "Well, it's nothing vulgar or immature, so I'll allow it, I suppose."

Allow. I could taste my own fury. Will was what the trainer on the platform had aspired to be; a real manipulator, like a spider, able to provoke reactions, every struggle bringing you further into their web. I pulled myself tightly in check as Will smiled lightly to himself, sipping his bubbly.

"It's even got a bit of mystery to it. PKMN Trainer Blue. So tastefully understated." He hummed. "We'll still be using your birth name for now of course, you need the startup publicity. Still, I see no reason we can't integrate it later. Think up a story behind it if you haven't already. Make it interesting."

I almost spat bile. I pulled my hands behind my back, clenching my fists. "Interesting." I managed, through gritted teeth. "I'll do that."

"Good!" Will said, all sparkles and brightness, but his eyes gave him away. Predatory. Dead. Cold. A sharpedo in the water. He waved gaily to another group of people and I watched him leave, ridiculous coattails flapping in the breeze.

My pants rustled. I looked down and saw my eevee rubbing itself against my leg, ears flat against her neck in distress.

I looked at the creature dully, before breaking out in a real smile, tight frustration and anger evaporating.

There was no possible way that it could have understood the intricacies of the interaction that had just taken place, context or content-wise. Yet still she was upset...because I was upset.

There's sappiness, and then there's plain, honest empathy. You can rag on the first all you like, but the only decent response to the latter is gratitude. A proud man rejects pity, but what kind of dick doesn't appreciate when someone is willing to be sad _with _you?

"Aw, come on." I protested weakly. "How am I supposed to stay mad when you're like that? You stupidly loyal throw-rug."

Eevee yipped and leapt up at me, and all I could do was laugh.

(=0=)

I like to talk big, but my legend nearly ended right in the Viridian Forest.

The day started simple enough. I ate breakfast at a diner. Gramps called and asked me to bring a package back. Aya called me and told me about several interviews, out of which I'd eventually choose yours.

I decided to do some light foraging in the Forest. I could have gone back to Pallet on the afternoon shuttle or seen a teleporter, but fuck that. I wasn't some errand runner. If Gramps was paranoid enough about this parcel to keep in the family, then he'd get it as soon as I felt like it.

I'd only agreed to do it in the first place because a trip to Pallet was already on my schedule. Red needed some money for a license and a pokedex and was too damn stubborn to ask for it. Probably thought I'd never let him live it down - true, but still stupid.

As if there was a chance in hell I would leave Red rotting in that backwater because of something as plebeian as poverty. Pallet didn't deserve him.

More? All in good time, my friend. I told you I'd talk about Red, and I will. Just wait.

So I was in the Forest, tracking a pidgey. Not for the team, mind you - on the competitive level, there was nothing a pidgeot could do a skarmory couldn't do better. But I'd always had a weakness for flying types, ever since that first ride on Gramps' dragonite, and pidgeots are gorgeous birds. You could fly on a pidgeot of proper size. Try riding a skarmory, on the other hand, and they'd either bite your head off or dismember you with one of their razor sharp wings by accident.

Only a bare few grow to riding weight, though, and that's what had me out here. This was the biggest damn pidgey I'd ever seen. You could tell it'd be a rider just by looking at it. It would fetch a handsome price at any aviary I brought it to.

As if I'd sell Aeolus. If nothing else I'll keep him just to make Falkner look bad. You heard me. We can put him on a scale after the interview if you like, but I'm afraid Violet City doesn't have the biggest birds around anymore - my pokedex clocked it at record weight. Just wait till all his plumage comes in. Looks like Hayato and his esteemed bloodlines...are gonna have to eat murkrow. Heh.

I caught him in the end, yeah, but it took me most of the day and nearly cost me my life.

I managed to tag him with tracer radiation from my pokedex the first time I saw him - new feature, you'll see it when the v2 comes out - but I still had to catch him. And um. Birds fly around. A lot. Getting him in a pokeball was a bloody pain.

I finally tracked him to his nest after sundown. At this point I was fairly tunnel-visioned on this pidgey; it was a matter of pride, now. I'd probably have done better noticing my starter's increasing whininess as we got further in, but at the time I chalked it up to hunger.

I'd just caught the pidgey - easy throw with it sleeping, quick follow-up when it struggled out - when the ursaring damn near tore my guts out.

I'd wandered into her territory, you see. I can guess now that she might have had little teddiursas around given her aggression, but I never did see them. I didn't have a chance to look around, being somewhat fucking preoccupied with the bear trying to eat me.

Now, let's be clear - that ursaring had me dead to rights. I would have died but for Blacky.

Blacky's got a little darkness in her family tree, you see. That crack about her being a lab pokemon wasn't entirely unjustified. Gramps had taken Blacky from a study on eevees' evolutionary inclinations. The hypothesis in question was whether eevees could be bred to be disposed towards certain members of their evolutionary tree. On one hand, their DNA was infamously volatile and mutagenic. Unpredictable. On the other, genetics were genetics. Unevolved eevee had been shown to pass traits on to their offspring - size, coat, the usual stuff. It was only good logic that the same could hold true of their elemental evolutions, given careful breeding. Blacky came from a long line of umbreons.

Of course, genes aren't everything. The moon was also out, nice and near full, blasting lunar power everywhere. The conditions were ideal.

I barely got out of the way of the first charge, and that was pure, knee-jerk luck. Now it had stopped and come around, all several hundred pounds of mean meat and claws. The ursaring was charging again and I was as good as done.

Moments away from becoming bear chow, Blacky pushed me into the shadow of a tree. And then we were gone.

It's hard to describe. You know how some Dark-types can disappear into shadows and come out elsewhere and no one really knows how it works? In battle, they do it as a flanking and evasion maneuver. Those are called faint attacks. They're short range.

This was different. I fell into a tree and came bursting out of my closet. In _Pallet Town_.

Not instantly. And that was the scary part. The inbetween. Forget fairy tales and scary stories and the Darkrai being under your bed if you don't eat your greens. That place was...

I don't want to talk about it. Suffice it be that there's a reason some Dark-type trainers fear the night.

Seem a little fantastic to you? That makes two of us. I look back and can hardly believe it. Most of the time I don't want to. But I'm not having you on, pal. It happened.

I woke up the next morning with Blacky by my side. The little brown rag was prancing around like nothing had happened.

Things changed then. Blacky wasn't some dead-weight or disappointment. That's nonsense. Any illusions of dissatisfaction I had left me that night. A larvitar couldn't have saved me from that ursaring, nor a dratini, nor a beldum.

I'm not a particularly superstitious man, but I took it as something of sign. In the entire Pallet laboratory there wasn't another starter than Blacky that I could name which could have saved me from an ursaring attack. Except my eevee. Except Blacky.

How? Because she was born to be Dark. My Blacky is a bad girl, baby.

Aya wanted an espeon. Gramps wanted a quieter life for me. And fucking Will thought he could tell me my name.

No more games, or dragging my feet. It was time to take a cue from Blacky and cut loose. Let my wild side out.

How I evolved Blacky is a secret. I'll be putting out a research paper soon. For now, I'll say it involved moonstones and trespassing. If you think you know how rapid an eevee evolution onset can be, you're wrong. What's the record, 48 hours, and that was a jolteon? Not anymore.

The important thing is, when I arrived at Pewter Gym I was packing heat in the form of a fully evolved umbreon, and nobody knew how I fucking did it. Espeon and umbreon are the slowest eeveelutions because they're so flip floppy - eevees are awake a bit of the night and day, so sometimes it's a coin-flip which they'll end up unless you only release them during diurnal or nocturnal cycles. There's also the friendship aspect. Eevees won't evolve into either for a trainer they don't like; that's just a fact. Eggheads can talk about dopamine balance as much as they like.

Me, I think some part of it is a decision. At some point they reach a fork in the road and have to choose one path. Control or chaos. Discipline, or the howling dark.

Maybe with Blacky's genes she started already halfway down the latter road. But there's still a choice. She could have told me no.

But she didn't. Because me and Blacky, we've got chemistry. We were made for eachother. Both of us popped out a bit crazy, but why deny our nature? We were born to be wild.

And to all you fishwives and mongoloid witchdoctors who like to lynch absols in the backcountry - Try it, and say what you please. You'd best hope to whatever heathen god you pray that I get to you before Blacky does.

You see, my baby ain't like those half-Darks and cringing shadows. She swims where they flail. She's purest dark and blackest night. So come at us, if you dare. Me? I'll just knock your lights out. Blacky? She will teach you how first men learned to fear the dark.

Which was how we won against Brock, actually. Honestly, the first round was tougher than the second; gravelers are tough as hell and twice as annoying. Wouldn't stop even after Aeolus poked its eyes out. Brock finally recalled him when I told Aeolus to land and take a nap. I guess even Gym Leaders can get embarassed.

Not to be rude, but Skyeater was boring by comparison. I brought a sandwich to the challenger box. Brock was used to Dark-types being able to chain maybe a dozen faint attacks in a row. Blacky ran circles around his big snake.

A cheap victory? Do you know how many pokemon exist that can actually trade with an onix? Running _is_ winning. I'm not going to try and tweak the nose of a giant, centuries-old ancestor to dragons.

I was surprised when Brock actually gave me some grief about after. Said it went against the technical spirit of the round. I'll tell you what I told him - what I did is no different than that trainer who doped his abra out on X-Speed and won, except I didn't use drugs illegal in the Pewter Gym.

You want a realistic scenario? It would take Blacky one leap to take me out of the path of a onix in the wild, just like it would any trainer with a psychic. I like to think the best of our leaders, but I think Brock was just upset that I made him look bad. Well, tough titties. His scenario is limited and unrepresentative of real life encounters and I took advantage of it. Any smart trainer should do the same.

I got the badge, and that's what matters. For those who think my win is all fluff without the academic content - I can list every Rock-type native to Indigo and their key traits and weakness right now, on the spot. Give me an hour and I could teach a class. Book smarts aren't just for chumps. I'm a trainer, ergo, I _know_ my pokemon. Any trainer that doesn't is asking to be mulch.

And that's how I got here, giving this interview. I'd talk about my win against Falkner, but it's not interesting. He underestimated me, plain and simple. He chose a beginner lineup and I'm just not at that level. If he knew my skill beforehand I would have had trouble. Falkner is an extremely skilled trainer, as is frequently shown in his exhibition matches. Though it was funny to see the look on his face when Blacky dropped onto his pidgeotto out of the rafter shadows; bird trainers never expect the attack from above.

And now we're here at the final issue you asked me to cover. Red.

I'm not gonna talk about who he is or where he came from. Those are his to share, and you can track him down if you're so damn curious.

I'll tell you who Red is to _me_.

He's the kid I grew up with. Gramps jokingly referred to him as his second grandson out of earshot sometimes, and Daisy liked to mess with him whenever he came around the house. His mom makes a mean apple crumble and sometimes their family mistermime used to give me nightmares. Clowns, man.

He was my classmate. School was pretty much a joke for both of us, but whenever I felt like drifting off he pulled me back. Like hell I was going to let some punk like him beat my scores. Everyone else could only chase me. Red could catch me.

He's a trainer. No one else has as much potential. I can say that, I've met the prospects. No one.

He's not my friend, let's be clear. Get that out of your heads right now. I'm not Wallace, and he's not Steven Stone.

Who is Red to me? I'm Blue. He's Red. _That's_ who he is to me. He's the only man I fear. Every other obstacle I have a plan for - not him. He's the wild card in the deck, always there, never predictable. We both know the destination. The only thing for it is for me to get there first. And I will. Why?

He's my nemesis. My rival. I can't see the future, sir, but there are three people you'll see at the Plateau this year. There's Lance. There's me. And there's him. Mark me on that.

I talk big? Hell yeah I do. Take a look, what's in my hand? Two badges of the Indigo League, won through trial by combat from the champions themselves.

Now tell me, what did you do last week?

_/TRANSCRIPT END_

_[Seized and edited by Armed Champion Extension (ACE). Cause: Classified program breach (see Project: NIGHTSTRIDE, lvl 6 clearance req.). Conclusion: Redacted version released for public viewing, surveillance status of (PKMN Trainer, record attached) Blue (Gerald Samuel Oak) unchanged. Video clip of interview attached. Additional notes (From: WITHHELD, lvl 9): Let the Oak boy play with the fire he found. We don't need another of Samuel's line in the big leagues.]_

(=0=)

And now, for what went unsaid.

In this world of monsters, there's only one god of men left: the Champion. He ain't just or loving, and has no face to worship, because his is ever-changing.

Rather, the Champion's an idea, an ideal. You hear 'ideal' and think 'naive', and well, you're right. Idealism is dead, damned dead, an system of views gone extinct. It can't grow naturally anymore, not on this cynical planet.

Yet the Champion exists, and the Champion is an ideal. We trainers revere this paradox.

What does the Champion represent? It's arguable. Responsibility, skill, purpose, purity of focus, the distillation of will? They've been said.

I say murder.

How did humans survive the cataclysm which wiped out nearly every other non-pokemon species on the planet? We killed, that's how, killed, fucked and grew. Pokemon came, in their packs and Wild Hunts and we killed them, and enslaved them; built walls and drove them back. We're out of the murky waters now. We're here to stay.

As the most powerful human on the planet, the Champion is naturally the epitome of that greatest virtue of man. But how to pay homage to such a deadly deity?

My friend, what do you think the Game is?

It's us - the Champion's chosen flock, we hunters, we slavers, we killers supreme - all of us, gathering in holy communion to worship our last great divine the only way we know how. By tearing him down and slitting his throat.

Because murder of the ego is still murder, doncha know?

It ain't easy. Who can kill the ultimate killer? Who can defeat the Champion, who defeated the Champion?

Why, the Champion, of course! Because only god can create a stone so large he cannot lift it, and lift it.

He who defeats the Champion, is Champion. The Champion cannot be defeated.

These are the rules of the Game of Champions.

And then there's me. Gary Oak. The ladies man. The champ-to-be. The prodigal son. The best there's ever been. Some call me mad. One calls me Blue. Haven't you heard? I'm the chosen one! Bow down, losers, I was crowned when they _fucking_ found me.

My apologies in advance to a childhood pal of mine. But really, what's a little deicidal kill-stealing between rivals?

(=0=)

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry # 197 ( J. #189 ): Umbreon._

_Basic Characteristics: Pure dark-type. Quadrupedal mammal, vulpine body structure, black short-hair coat, spotted with golden phosphorescent rings. Complete extent of powers over DW (Distortion World) physics, as always with dark-types, varies. Secretes hallucinogenic contact-poison from pores under stress. Member of the eevee evolutionary tree. Avg. height 3'03, avg. weight 59.5 lbs._

_Description: Unlike other 'eeveelutions', the umbreon's status as an evolution of the rare eevee is negligible compared to the even more exclusive kingdom to which it belongs, that of the total Dark-type. Folklore and cult writing names umbreon as one of the Darkrai's 'abyssal hounds' (alongside the absol, zoroark and several others), that will purportedly cover the earth in living nightmare come the end of days. It is notable that unlike the others, whose mythological roles generally involve destruction, disaster and betrayal, the umbreon's task is that of the merciful psychopomp, ferrying tortured souls to the afterlife behind Cresselia's holy lunar veil. Whatever the truth may be, experienced hunters universally agree that chasing umbreons after sundown is a fool's errand, and that to do so is to invite death, or worse._

_Nicknames: The Moonlight Pokemon, blackdaw, mooncat, the Final Beast, endfox._

_"...and while it was previously thought to be the eeveelution with the longest evolutionary duration, it seems that young Gary Oak has proved us wrong. Look at this. We've known for some time that moonstones noticeably smooth the transition of the umbreon evolution (though do not induce it outright), and we've theorized that X-Speed would speed it up, given the increased metabolism and clotting rate - though given how volatile eevee evolutions are, we've always thought introducing drugs would be a poor idea. We simply never thought to bring the two procedures together. The only question is where he managed to get moonstones in Pewter City, given how prohibitively expensive they are. I suspect we lost a great scientist when he joined the training circuit ..."_

(=0=)

Distortion-dunking: an illegal, highly-classified torture method involving the use of Dark-type pokemon to 'dunk' the prisoner's head into the Distortion World. Declared inhumane in every single region due to the nearly nonexistent rate of psychological recovery.

ACE: Stands for Armed Champion Extension, a highly skilled trainer agency under the direct command of the Champion, founded by the First Champion after his defeat by the Second. What government bureau they are officially a division of has varied over the years; their legend, however, has not. ACE Trainers are widely known as some of the most experienced and powerful trainers around, and while their stated role is the protection of the Champion and Indigo League, they have been implicated in numerous clandestine operations, from espionage to assassination. While their recruitment pool is infamously diverse, plucking trainers from retirement age to fresh out of school, it is noted that every living deposed Champion with the exception of Giovanni Vittore has gone on to serve in their ranks.

Bayleef: This pokemon constantly emits a airborne spore which increases aggression and causes irritation in pokemon and humans. 'Smells like a bayleef' and other similar quips are frequently made when a person seems to be getting angry for no reason.

Wild Hunt: A term describing pokemon of a certain number who have gathered in a horde to overrun a human gathering or settlement. What distinguishes a Wild Hunt from a simple stampede or rampage is premeditation and the common presence of previous, serious provocation, which may include mass pollution, over-hunting or other extreme disturbances. Wild Hunts are extremely deadly and may come with almost no warning, given the pokemon ability to universally communicate, and are often organized over mass distances by psychic-types. Entire species of pokemon have been known to up and migrate to partake in a Wild Hunt given proper cause. The last officially recorded Wild Hunt occurred seventeen years ago, breaking against the walls of Viridian City.


	7. 5: Blooded

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Chapter Five

Blooded

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_"Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: two: why,_

_then, 'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky!—Fie, my_

_lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we_

_fear who knows it, when none can call our power_

_to account?—Yet who would have thought the old_

_man to have had so much blood in him?"_

- 35-40 of Macbeth by William Shakespeare, famous pre-pokemon tragedy

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"Another martini. Dry."

His orders are as terse as his character. Giovanni Vittore lifts his thumb from the intercom, giving no acknowledgement to the affirmation that comes through on the other line; instead, he merely leans back, staring through the one-way window of the recording booth at the interrogation-turned-storytime taking place in the next room.

On his left his hand dangles, a cigar trailing smoke wedged firmly between his fingers. His persian gave up trying to win his attention an hour ago, laying bored at his feet.

On his right is a table, atop which sit the ashtray, porygraphic computer display and the corpse of the previous drink, glass and mixer both. And then there is her.

Her name is Matori, and she is Giovanni Vittore's, full stop. The vast range of tasks she performs excludes any job title that might even try to do her justice. She's listed as a secretary in the organization salary rolls and is assumed as such by all who first meet her, as most people see the glasses, bob cut and knee-length skirt and write her right off.

If they knew Matori could forge a check, compose music, cook extravagant cuisine, run a five-minute mile, replicate sixteen different explosives and poisons from household chemicals, list all the major human arteries in order of accessibility, survive in most environments with nothing but a knife and a oddish, organize and plan a tactical insertion, or string a man or woman along an entire night while a psychic pokemon got in proper position to throw a clot in their brain before watching them die while emulating a civilian response, they might take her a little more seriously.

But they didn't, and that is the point. Strangely enough, it is none of Matori's endless skills - mementos all of her time as an ACE Trainer before she defected, the first in history to do so - or her many highly trained pokemon, who are the first and only line of defense Giovanni cares (or needs) to outsource, that make her the deadliest woman in Team Rocket.

Giovanni Vittore _trusts_ Matori. Not only to have his back, but to carry his will to far, dark places where he could not. His executives might be the greater direct threat, but not a one of them or any of the other Rockets in the inner circle that dares cross the woman who could order their assassinations and have it written off as a business expense without so much as asking his permission. And she wouldn't ask, because she didn't need to. Orders from Matori are as good as from his own lips. She isn't paid her lucrative salary to be a right hand, but his _third_ hand.

And the hand can't help but know how the body moves. Giovanni is one of the most inscrutable men alive, but from nothing save his perfectly blank expression and the set of his jaw Matori can divine tension, confusion and a tightly reined fury, to say nothing of his rate of alcoholic consumption.

"Bring up the excavation black-box. I want to see the video recording again." The former Grand Champion announces without warning. Matori's fingers fly over the keys of her computer terminal and the relevant files appear without delay. The kitchen assistant lets himself in and deposits the latest round.

Matori is concerned. The prisoner inside the room is the instigator of chaos unprecedented in their organization's history, not to mention elsewhere. She knows better than anyone else living that Giovanni is imperfect. It's entirely possible this boy - this Trainer Red - has done the impossible and actually managed to make it personal.

The prisoner starts his tale again, and Matori realizes the purpose behind Giovanni's order. They're rapidly approaching their organization's first documented confrontation with the mystery trainer known as Red.

The Mt. Moon massacre.

Giovanni drains his glass in a single draw and reaches for the mixer. As the assistant makes to leave and Red continues, Matori briefly wonders if her boss might be in too deep. But in an instant she corrects herself. This is Giovanni Vittore. If Matori believed he was anything less than _Tenkaichi_, she would have killed him all those years ago as ordered.

Besides. He can't be that angry, or he'd have ordered the brandy. Satisfied, she returns her attention to the interrogation room.

"Stop."

The assistant stops. Matori turns. Giovanni sips the next martini, and his lip curls. He takes a long draw on his cigar, considering.

"Brandy." He decides, after a brief pause. "Cinnabarean. Blaine's old vintage."

(=0=)

Smirking, I closed the online video client, snapping my pokedex shut. Blue's interview had been amusing, to say the least.

It hadn't been hard to find - it had been the top-trending video on the web for over a day now. One of the first things to come back with the internet was the 24-hour news cycle - and with our population, laughably small compared to pre-pokemon numbers, information traveled even faster given the smaller circuit.

The responses to the interview were even funnier than the video itself. I'd noticed three separate recordings of pundits' responses to it. I wondered if any of them knew they were playing right into his hands. Probably. It didn't take a genius to realize that someone didn't just challenge the Champion's badge record off the cuff.

But it was interesting, so they covered it. No doubt they expected to make a killing when he tripped and fell.

But that was the beauty of it. As caught up as they were talking _about_ him, none of them were bothering to talk to him. Otherwise, they might come to suspect just what Richie the reporter had all that time ago; that Blue was not in any way screwing around.

And Blue had probably planned it all. There's a reason I let him be my rival.

The sun beat a tattoo on the back of my neck as I hiked. The peak of Mt. Moon loomed above me, like a crooked finger beckoning the sky, one side noticeably deformed from the famous moon-borne meteor which had struck so many years ago. We'd passed the clan checkpoint an hour ago and veered off the usual paths through the mountain, well-worn by many trainers with their hiker guides. I'd already guessed we were taking some clan-exclusive path, but the deviation still left me uneasy.

I glanced around. I'd found the four Ainu men waiting in the lobby when I awoke, carrying on a jaunty conversation in their native language. It'd taken no time at all to discover they were my escort for the journey through their sacred mountain. None of them had bothered to introduce themselves, but I had dubbed their spokesperson Yoboss, given the rest of the party's tendency to address him that way - he seemed to be their leader.

"Yo boss," One said, jerking his thumb towards one of the gravelers flanking us, carrying most of the gear as they doggedly followed. He rattled something off in Ainu, and Yoboss nattered back. It ended in Yoboss releasing his own graveler and switching him in. Apparently the graveler had been getting tired. I knew they much preferred rolling to walking.

Pikachu squealed for my attention, and I knelt a moment to offer him a drink of water out of my canteen cap. Obediently, the party stopped. They'd been nothing but compliant and polite to me, which only served to worry me more. I could see hard muscle and straight posture not typical to your usual hiking guide, and it wasn't many a mountain team that communicated using ranger hand-signals.

Which is why I'd instructed Pikachu to be ready at literally the snap of a finger. Only time would tell where I'd have to point.

"We are five m_ee_nutes out." Yoboss informed me conversationally, sucking water from a drip attached to his back. "It will be much cooler inside. No reason to dally, hmm?"

I nodded. Pikachu, apparently fed up with walking, scrambled up my side and settled peeking over my shoulder, resting his hind legs on my backpack. I knew I shouldn't let it become a habit, but I was too thrilled at my starter's touching me of my own accord. I should have known he'd become spoiled - it's the only way he deigns to travel, now. Ha.

When we reached the mouth of the entrance, we stopped to suit up. Traveling through monster-infested catacombs was a whole different animal than walking through open wilderness. It wasn't more dangerous, per say - there were simply different hazards.

I knew to bring a thick scarf - covering your neck was mentioned in every tunnel-traveling guide since the printing press was rediscovered. Zubat bites could seem scary and painful, having a flapping, screeching creature latched onto you, but really were only fatal if they managed to open a major artery. I wrapped the thick cloth firmly around my jugular. I was prepared for zubats.

I wasn't prepared for _darkness_, however. The main paths through Mt. Moon were well illuminated and excavated, and shown on the guide website, looking almost fun and adventurous in how safe they seemed. It wasn't a lie - I knew that the more dangerous mountain pokemon almost never tunneled through into the main Mt. Moon guide paths.

What I was looking at, however, closely resembled a dark well. Only I knew there wasn't water at the bottom, when the pebble I kicked down hit the bottom. After a fucking _minute_, that is.

'Scared' wasn't the right word. This just seemed _dumb_. I couldn't imagine why anyone with sense would actually take this dangerous a path through.

"Main path _ee_s built around onix tunnels for extra safety. Takes longer." Yoboss grunted, cranking the pulley with two of the other guides. There was crude rope apparatus constructed over the hole, and the last user had apparently left the lift at the bottom. "This much faster. Goes through onix tunnels. You like fast, yes?"

For a moment I almost dared hope for a properly caged platform, or even a bucket. But no. There was a plank. Not even a good plank; today I still swear I saw a crack right on one the edges.

Naturally, when one of the guides, a grown man, leapt onto it, grabbed the rope and rode it whooping gleefully down into the abyss, it did not exactly reassure me. I swallowed thickly as Yoboss and the other two hauled it back up.

I asked Yoboss how it was possible to get a job as a guide when one was clinically insane. He paused a moment, and I don't think he quite understood me, because he chose to _smile and nod_.

Uneasily, I secured Pikachu inside of my jacket and stepped onto the plank. Unsurprisingly, it was no more steady than it looked; less, even. In an admittedly quavery voice, I asked Yoboss to let me down slow.

In response, all three grinned and let go of the rope. I'm fairly sure I woke up every zubat in Mt. Moon on the way down.

The Ainu Clan: bastards and lunatics, every one of them.

(=0=)

The onix tunnels were dark and inscrutable, covered in bat droppings and often forked off in any which direction, be it left, right, or _down_, in a few close circumstances. It wasn't long before we had descended into true darkness, devoid of any light but that of our infrared goggles and the almost imperceptible glow of Pikachu's cheeks.

With the many splitting passages and loss of direction that came with being underground, I took time to appreciate the ingenuity of the Ainu's solution to the problem, which takes a little explaining.

Everyone knows of zubat's extreme supersonar navigation abilities, but it's in their nesting behavior that you'll find reason to be impressed. Infant zubat are little more than the size of gumballs first born, stuck on the side of the wall like tiny sleeping pebbles in their parent's placental mucus smears - it's not enough to just remember what section of tunnel they're in. Zubats have to be able to map and memorize caves to the tiniest sand-like detail in order to find their way back to their clutch.

That was why the zubat currently struggling frantically forward on a leash at the front was so comforting; even if tunnels had caved in or changed, if there was any way to the location where the Ainu men had no doubt strategically laid its brood, the zubat _would_ find it and lead us there. Judging from the way it was still forging ahead, flapping awkwardly around on the tether, there was.

The trip through the tunnels was thereafter uneventful. It would have been easy to lose myself in the mundane task of navigating through the uneven twists and turns, but I did not let my mind stay at rest.

Why these obviously military men? Why four? What package? To be completely untrusting would be foolish - in this darkness, they were my only lifeline. I did not think they were walking me to a grave.

But they had plans for me. Intentions that, if they were innocuous, they would have revealed at the very beginning of the trip. Would it be illegal? Immoral? Only time would tell.

Eventually, we came to a halt in a straighter section of tunnel, wider and more bored out than most of those we'd passed through. The lead guide released the tethered zubat, who fluttered fretfully up to a patch of slightly slick stone on the ceiling, and lit a small hand lantern, setting in on the floor. I blinked blearily, eyes watering under the sudden assault of light, as the hulking clan men gathered around.

"All right. Are here." Yoboss said gruffly, rummaging around in his rucksack. He barked a few short orders to his men as he looked, and they nodded, rising and loping off into the honeycomb of tunnels from whence we came.

I asked after them and he waved a hand nonchalantly at me.

"Not be worrying about them. You. Th_ee_s." Yoboss said, and retrieved a parcel from his baggage, placing it between us. "This is your worrying."

I picked it up and examined it. It was decently weighted, and the surface of whatever object lay inside was hard, but smooth. I put my ear to it and could hear the soft breathing of machinery. Across the surface of the wrapping paper was a thick sticker I'd seen once or twice in my life, marked with the label _RESERVED POSTAGE_, underscored by a short barcode. That barcode, I knew, would correspond to a certain clearance code, depending on how sensitive the material was. It was most commonly used on diplomatically immune baggage and classified correspondence.

Yoboss, in the meanwhile, had risen, grunting as he slid aside a section of tunnel I hadn't noticed was loose, allowing light to blast in from an adjacent tunnel, this one much wider and well-lit. I rose and followed him in.

This tunnel seemed to be connected to the main Mt. Moon tunnels, judging from the electric lamps hanging from the ceiling of the cavern and the dirt road, wide enough to drive on, leading off in both directions till it curved out of sight.

Yoboss clapped me on the shoulder. "You go that way. Will reach security checkpoint. They _v_ill let you through. Important things to remember-" He held up a finger, and I see his carefree manner take a much more serious turn. I listened accordingly. "One, not be letting this package be opened. Ask for project overseer. They will take to him. Two, after give, leave. If not leave, wait. We will come and get."

My suspicion had taken just as much as it could handle. I asked what was in the package, listing the things I had inferred. A horrible thought occurred to me, and without thinking, I asked if it was an explosive.

Yoboss did not laugh. "Not bomb. Not be worrying." He looked me solemnly in the eye. "You are friend of _aknipa_. We are not enemy. We will come. Find safe spot, wait."

Brock, I realized. Yoboss chuckled, finally.

"_Brock_." He said, pronouncing it 'bruck', in a mocking tone. "Pah. Stage name. Not birth name. To us, he is _Aknipa_. Not birth name either, but nickname. Title. More fitting. _Aknipa_." Yoboss repeated, staring fiercely at me.

I nodded and mimicked, as he obviously wished. Much like many trainers who took different names upon licensing (such as myself), Gym Leaders occasionally changed their names to better fit their persona.

Yoboss nodded firmly, apparently having got what he wished. He handed me a watch, which I obediently strapped to my wrist. I spied an identical one on his wrist. He touched a button on his, and on both our screens the current time appeared, perfectly synced.

"That way. Remember. Package, project overseer." He pointed, then walked back into the dark passage of tunnel. "Twenty minutes. Be out by then." Yoboss grunted, and the rock slid back in place, leaving me alone in the light.

For a second, I stood mechanically still, before the words kicked in, and my legs started moving. I was on a time limit.

I nudged Pikachu off my shoulder, and set off at a light jog, doing a mental inventory. I held the parcel under my armpit like a football. The tunnel curved gently, allowing easy visibility around corners.

After a few minutes of running, I heard voices ever so slightly, echoing around the latest bend. I stopped, shrugging off my backpack. I had two extra changes of clothes and sundries and I picked the assortment which seemed the most befitting a courier. Appearance mattered in every situation. A red windbreaker and sunglasses didn't change much, but it made me look less like a punk kid, and a punk kid got held up at security twice as long. I inspected myself, and unlooped my belt, slinging it across my chest like a sash. It was better than nothing.

With that, I rounded the corner, and faced down the checkpoint, lined with armed men in Team Rocket uniform.

Whatever conversation they had been carrying on instantly ceased. Pneumatic crossbows came up, and a trio of growlithe came thundering out, surrounding me near instantly. There were other countermeasures in place to watch for feral pokemon. These mens' job was to watch for human threats, and they took it very seriously.

"Halt! Hands up, call in your pokemon!" One barked tensely. I took him in at a glance - buzzed hair, stocky build, rigid frame. Probably ex-military. These were not the helpful charity workers you saw on Team Rocket commercials.

I shushed Pikachu and put my hands up, placing my parcel carefully on the ground. Pikachu hissed but reined himself in, backing almost up my leg as the decidedly unfriendly growlithes hemmed us in. I announced myself as a high priority courier and waited patiently. Nervousness was as good as an admission of guilt.

After a terse exchange over radio, a drowzee shambled out sleepily, gnarled yellow trunk swaying, droopy eyes taking in everything at once. I held my breath.

I've said that fictional interpretations of 'mind-reading' and 'telepathic communication' are false, and they are. Psychic reading simply can't derive such specific meaning from another mind. However, in regards to simpler readings, such as _true_ or _false_, psychics were remarkably more useful.

Before any questions could be asked of me, I quickly rattled off the relevant laws regarding the non-consensual psychic manipulation of humans, inquiring as to whether they remembered them.

The guards exchanged glances and I sweated. Another thing that psychics could do was delve into memories from the victims perspective. Human memories might not make any sense to, say, a drowzee, but it was easy enough to show them to another human, who could easily understand them. My ship was sunk and buried if they did that.

Luckily, memory-reading was locked up behind so many sanctions and bylaws that it was nigh-impossible to get clearance outside of high-stakes trials and government agencies. That didn't mean, of course, that it was not done in closed circles. After all, memories could also be erased.

I saw them eye the diplomatic tape across the mystery package, and I helpfully reminded them of the hefty sentence that was associated with anyone but the courier or recipient touching it, never mind opening it.

"Shut up." One Rocket guard amiably responded, slinging his weapon to retrieve a touchpad with a long antennae. "ID?"

I quickly recited my trainer number as he tapped away. He exchanged a glance with his compatriot, the first who'd spoken.

"Checks out." He offered neutrally.

"He's not on the schedule. Glasses off." The other guard retorted, directing the latter order at me. He frowned as I complied. "The fuck's wrong with your eyes?"

I ignored him and locked gazes with the drowzee, doing my best to clear my mind as I waited to be questioned. A light haze descended, like a thick mist over my mind, as if any thought that went through it would get damp.

"Are you the courier of this package?" _By necessity, yes._ "Is this package harmful in nature to this encampment?" I shook my head. I honestly had no idea. "Are you Trainer Red?"

Thus the problem with truth-telling. Psychics could only determine if one was telling the truth to that person's knowledge. With a little mental training, which every employee of the Pokemon Professor's research ranch received to some degree, one could answer yes or no questions while thinking wide arcs around what your own opinion of the answer.

One old game of Blue and mine had involved such exercises, bringing in Ashford and other psychics to polygraph us as we answered wrong to exponentially more ludicrous questions. The point was to give obviously false answers while still reading as true. Blue currently held the record, having told me that yes, all pokemon were born from hard-shelled eggs, right under the nose of a professional alakazam truth-reader. I still couldn't reason what kind of knot he'd tied his mind into to make it look like he believed that.

Compared to that, this was child's play. I'd once told Ashford the sky was made out of seawater without a single blip. I could pretend to be a courier for five damn minutes, drowzee or no drowzee.

I began tapping my foot. I asked if we were done. Because if we were done, I could take my delivery to the project overseer and get on with my life. Pointedly, I cocked an eyebrow.

The Rocket guard grunted. "Fair enough. Your pokemon stay here. Come with me."

I handed over my pokeball belt and met Pikachu's eyes, telling him very sternly to stay at the checkpoint. A master trainer might have been able to subtly indicate that he was to leap to my aid in the case of trouble. I settled for the knowledge that Pikachu would simply disobey me if trouble came.

Pikachu snorted and trotted into the security booth, where I glimpsed him leap up onto a table and curl up, followed shortly by one of the guards with my pokeballs.

"Hey." A guard jerked his head towards the main encampment, crossbow now pointing downwards in a casual carry. "This way."

I followed, noting the drowzee who shuffled behind me, not normal procedure by a longshot. The haze over my mind, imperceptible to the untrained but very noticeable to me, hadn't yet lifted. I schooled my thoughts and focused on observing my surroundings.

The encampment was a hollowed out cavern quite voluminous in size. As I glimpsed the scaffolds packed with digging tools and the way the chamber's shape followed no set design, I deduced that it was an excavation - though not of any metallic ore, as I could glimpse no minecarts.

Men in uniform bustled everywhere, the Rocket guards being the minority; most wore lab coats or jumpsuits. I couldn't spot a hard laborer anywhere. A delicate job, then, scientific in nature.

I was highly curious at the time. After all, a project like this took a lot of money, and I hadn't heard a single whisper of it in news or television, where Team Rocket usually publicized their charity missions.

This wasn't volunteer work people were doing here. That was certain. I watched a pair of grunts amble by, weapons slung and arcanine trailing, and felt the hard knot of suspicion in my gut only grow tighter.

My spectating had to be cut short, however, as we reached the only ceilinged structure in the camp - a small command hut, covered in sheets of titanium, with a long antennae stretching upwards. I guessed this to be their main method of communication with the outside world.

The guard held up a hand. "Wait." He then stepped inside.

I waited outside, trying not to fidget as I turned the package over in my hands. It beeped loudly and I nearly jumped out of my own skin. Before I could even begin to deliberate on what that meant, the guard poked his head out, motioning me in.

I stepped inside and was almost immediately blinded by science. Complicated arrays surrounded me on every side. I named as many devices as I could before my knowledge ran right out. Displays showed readouts of unknown numbers, and machines crunched data, drawing lines that meant nothing to me. This was extremely high-tech.

There were two other occupants of the command center. One was a young man in a lab coat, slovenly shaven and greasy haired, wheeling around the displays on a wheeled chair. I dismissed him out of hand as a harmless egghead.

The other sucked in the focus of the room, standing rigidly at his feet, staring into a wall of security camera monitors. His person was impeccably kept, from his ironed slacks to smooth chin, salt and pepper hair cut short and combed back, all the way to the engraved pokeball dangling from his hip, in perfect reach of his hand.

In my mind, I marked him immediately as holding both power and authority. This was without a doubt the Team Rocket administrator.

"High-priority delivery, Grey." The guard supplied helpfully.

The overseer nodded and held out an expectant hand. "Back to your post." Grey responded, grasping the parcel I offered.

The guard jerked his chin and thumbed his shoulder radio, a burst of static piercing the silence. He stepped outside, cursing and fiddling with it.

I made eagerly to follow, but Grey held up a hand. "Hold." He murmured, tugging at the wrappings. I jerked to a stop, fidgeting as though insects were crawling under my skin. My time was almost up. I no longer had any desire to see what was in the mysterious package. My fondest wish was to be out of here and on my way, to hell with the Ainu's unknown intentions.

Grey reached to rip off the diplomatic sticker-

-And like thunder, a series of explosions rocked the cavern. The egghead screamed and fell out of his hair, and the overseer spun around.

My own eyes found the security camera displays, some of them black or half-inoperable. People in lab coats and Team Rocket uniforms fell from the scaffolding, rushing towards the entrances already caved in from placed charges. Pokeballs and gas canisters dropped from murder holes drilled in the ceiling, releasing pokemon strike forces - burly machokes and gravelers to fight the physical battles, and more unseen, ghosts rending people limb from limb and psychics working from unknown corners. And all among them, seen only in glimpses-

The guides of the Ainu clan. Yoboss and his team, decked out in full matte black body armor, taking out Rocket guards with neat shots to the center of mass. The camp guards tried to mount a defense, new pokemon appear in flashes of red light, but the Ainu strikers were well trained and on them in seconds, crushing the new combatants before they could re-orient themselves to fight.

I hissed under my breath. This was no delivery job. This was a raid. And I had been shanghaied into it.

My mind raced. I was already a part of it, there was no avoiding it now. Priority one was assuring that me and mine made it out of this alive. Threats.

I looked immediately to Grey, locked in a moment of horror watching the brutal efficiency of the Pewter black ops team. Power and authority, I'd named him. No doubt this was his worst case scenario, perhaps even something he'd planned for, given the Ainu's reluctance to send the package along with one of their own.

Any decent administrator always had at least one emergency button. A contingency. Something for when all the shit had hit every fan.

I had to pick a side. Fight or flight.

Grey was carrying a pokeball. Only one.

He went for it, and I lunged.

Now, it's time for you to throw out most of what you think you know about hand-to-hand combat. It's not about roundhouse kicks or one-hit KOs. It's not about attack combos or breaking necks. It's about deciding upon an objective goal - submission, maiming, etcetera - and causing enough damage to reach that end. Having a goal is important. Not because it gives you something to strive for, but because it gives you somewhere to stop.

I knew I had to keep his hand away from that pokeball, to stop the red button from being pushed. But a goal? I had nothing. Nothing but a out of control pulse rate and enough adrenaline to fist-fight a primeape.

I snapped out with a straight kick, slapping his wrist away from the ball and punching it off his belt. The pokeball hit the floor with a clang and rolled under the lip of a supercomputer, unopened. Good. Goal accomplished.

But now Grey knew he was under attack, and there was an elbow flying towards my face.

My mind vomited up facts as I caught it in the forehead, staggering back, my hat flying off: he had weight on me, at least a stone or two. Muscle, not fat. My brow hurt like a mother, but it was bone and could take it - that hit in the nose might have put me out of commission. More facts. His center of gravity wasn't yet set. His clothes would limit him - slacks, expensive loafers, blazer.

In my mind, I dubbed him castle, and I, siege.

It was a lesson the ACE combat expert had espoused, visiting the Pallet school. A fight was like a siege. Whoever was the castle was heavier, and hence, slower - his was to protect his vitals, repel, and strike decisively when the time came right.

I was the besieger. Mine was to attack without pause, target resources and use his strength against him, and most importantly of all, to never, ever stop.

He had a head of height on me and some experience, if his built frame was anything to go by. But despite the amazing resilience of the human body, he was not made of stone.

Resources. Oxygen, blood, water, food in that order. The last two were irrelevant for my purposes. Deny rest. Keep moving.

I juked right and then left, twisting under a heavy left, lancing out where I imagined his solar plexus to be. It felt like punching a brick, but I kept at it, left and right, until a hit connected with a satisfying whoomph. I brought my guard up and caught a haymaker that would have shattered my collarbone like fine china, ducking to my knees before he could follow up.

I elbowed him in the groin and caught a weighted kick that knocked my head some, sending stars exploding through my vision. I flailed a guard up and waited through the assault while my vision cleared before opening up, catching a kick full in the torso. My ribs creaked and I wanted to puke, but I held on, exploding out of my curl, bracing my foot against a computer bulkhead and heaving upwards with all my might.

We both went down. It's worth it to note that while it might sound like I came out of this in better condition, I really hadn't. I might have even been worse. I was covered in hits that would leave long strips of heavy bruising in the days to come. His haymaker had knocked my knuckle into my eye and it would bloom into a full puffy black in five minutes.

The difference was, my injuries were painful in the long term. His were immediately debilitating. I'd hit him twice and thrown him, but he was the one groaning on the floor in testicular and cranial (he hit his head on the way down) pain with the wind knocked out of him, while I was still able to scramble to my feet, pick up the office chair the egghead (currently curled up under a bulkhead, squealing and pissing himself) was using, and bring it down on him like a flail.

I didn't connect any solid hits, as he brought his legs up and kicked it away. Catching it finally, he wrenched it out of my grasp and heaved it away, rolling onto his hands and knees to stand.

This had been my objective all along - to get his back.

I leapt upon the chance like a houndoom on a choice steak, wrapping my dominant arm around Grey's neck like a steel band and forcing the man's head into the choke with my left. There are correct and incorrect ways to perform a neck hold, and I knew the right of it: forcing the adam's apple up, without mercy. In a calmer state of mind, social boundaries and my own natural sanctity for life might have stopped or held me back, but my blood was up, and I had degenerated into an animal. All I knew was the fight.

As soon as my arm wrapped around his neck, natural bodily survival instincts kicked in, and the overseer flailed with great strength, other injuries forgotten in lieu of the direct danger to his life. But it was too late. I was the sapper under the walls, and the keep was mine. He slapped and grabbed at my windbreaker, trying to pull me up and over his shoulder, but I wrapped my legs around his torso and pulled like I was trying to pull his head off to mount on my wall. I think I may have been screaming as well, as I found my throat very sore afterwards.

He went limp after several moments, but I did not let up - this was the last possible ploy, the final deception of experienced opponents. Many a extraordinarily strong-willed fighter had lured his enemy into releasing him prematurely by feigning death, and I would not be fooled. I took advantage of his unresponsiveness to pull him into a full rear naked choke, forcing his head into the floor. I would not stop, I vowed, not until I popped his head off like a daisy, not until I twisted it off like a bottle cap, a wine cork-

The hut door banged upon, and I leapt off him with a yell that sounded hardly human in my own ears, retreating to the back of the command center. Yoboss shouldered his way in, eyes hard and pneumatic crossbow. He took in the scene - me at the back, the corpse on the floor, and the quivering academic - and slowly relaxed, rising from his firing crouch.

"Please. _Please_." The scientist moaned, trembling hands reaching out. "I'm just an- I'm a f-fucking _archaeologist_. I was just here to d-do my j-job-"

Without warning, Yoboss angled his weapon towards the egghead and fired. He didn't even have to scream as he was feathered with expert shots, steel bolts blooming in his head, chest and finally his heart. On my part, I could only watch in mute horror as a previously living being of my own species was emotionlessly reduced to meat to the sound of dull thwacks.

"As are _ve_." Yoboss murmured, and turned to me.

My gizzard leapt straight up into my throat. I had no chance. I had underestimated the elders. I was-

Yoboss knelt next to Grey's body, rummaging in his pockets until he found a strange device, which he quickly concealed and pocketed. He tipped the dead administrator's chin up, inspecting the purple lips and abrasions already growing along the throat, and glanced at me. "Good job." He said mildly, and left, leaving me alone in the hut.

For a moment, all I could hear was the sound of my own breathing. Then the real world rushed back to me with a pop, bringing the context of my actions down on me like a tsunami. I had assisted- I had killed- I couldn't-

Pikachu.

I burst out of the command center at a dead sprint, screaming hoarsely for my starter. I didn't see the bloodied rocks, or Ainu guides milling about, or the gravelers piling bodies. I couldn't deal with them right then, so I didn't. I leapt right over a scientist slumped over the bent railing which had broken his back, stepped around the guts of the same drowzee who'd scanned me. Dozens of men and pokemon that'd been just doing their jobs, and none of them mattered but mine.

I reached the security booth I'd left him at and found the knob strangely slow to turn. Magnetized. With a burst of desperate strength, I backed up and aimed a kick at the joint of the lock, bashing the door in.

Pikachu stared at me from atop his perch on a vacated office chair. Slumped on the floor was one of the Rocket grunts and his houndour, both charred. Pikachu looked decidedly unimpressed.

Instantly, I swept him up into a crushing embrace. The only instant of warning I had was a brief growl before a paralyzing shock hit me and I collapsed as if I had been shock-batonned, limbs akimbo and body burning.

Yet despite the pain, I laughed hysterically. He was all right. My Pikachu was okay.

The battle was over, and it was time to take accounts. If the following portion reads like a financial report, it's because I withdrew into myself, locking out my feelings for the time being and turning into a machine. Because I wasn't ready to function as a person yet, and I had work to do. If you want to grill me later on exact details, as I'm sure this is of high interest to you, you're welcome to. Later.

I recovered my butterfree and several other pokemon from a perusal of the security booth and the corpses. I didn't inquire after the exact casualty listing - which I'm sure you have, as you were the contractors - but I estimated deaths around fifty or sixty, not counting pokemon. The extreme efficiency of elimination can be attributed to the knockout gas, which rendered most of the research and security forces into unconsciousness shortly, and the strategically placed charges, which blocked off the exits and crushed alive a large portion of the defense before they could release their pokemon, as they were stationed there.

My tactical analysis of your defeat is as follows: you underestimated the value of the location to the Ainu and understaffed. Your men bowed too quickly before my clearance level, which allowed me to bring what I was later told was a porygonic jamming device into range, disabling all electronic communication and alarms (as teleportation and astral travel were both jammed as soon as the attack began, via a lunatone and misdreavus in the tunnels). Admittedly, porygons and porygonic technology were cutting edge technology at the time, but still. You don't just let people walk into your base. That's stupid.

Finally, you didn't learn from history. Maybe you believed somehow that the defeat of the Pewter City capitalists over a century ago to be irrelevant, come new technology and time, or that the Ainu had somehow forgotten their tunnel-traveling ancestry.

You were wrong. The Ainu Clan may have come out of hiding and become mainstream, but they were and are still the kingdom under the mountain. They've tamed and turned away groudonspawn, darkness and imperialism without losing the common touch. And you thought you could steal their land and rob their crypts?

Lunacy. If you'll pardon the pun.

Yoboss and his team, either recognizing my state or just in a hurry, welcomed my help in the cleanup. I received a mercenary's share of the plunder - one tenth, which included money looted from the pockets of the slain.

A vulture? You're calling me that? It was several thousand idols when I traded over the Rocket pokemon I'd found. For the first time in my life, I'd be almost wealthy. You forget, I saw the Celadon labs, Rocket. It isn't theivery to steal from monsters. Take your judgement and go fuck yourself.

Exiting the mountain was a much less trying prospect than entering. Without the need to worry about the Rockets detecting us, as I now reasoned, we simply teleported out via lunatone.

However, natural light is much different from artificial light, and we had been traveling through tunnels for some time. As soon as the sun hit my eyes I, who had been following along in a semi-daze, yowled and dropped, covering my flash-seared retinas protectively while the guides chortled, having already donned sunglasses before the jump.

We stood at the top of an open plateau in the broad daylight, the Cerulean plains of Route 4 stretching out before me in swaying gold and green. The great lunar mountain rose behind us, silent as the tomb it was. I watched as the grass rustled with pokemon underfoot, and glimpsed a pair of picnickers in the distance trudging their slow way home.

It was almost offensive how mild the scene was. I had recently become a murderer. It was illogical, but I felt as if the world should have shifted somehow. Become darker, clearer? I wasn't sure.

A hard slap on the shoulder brought me out of my reverie. "Time to go." Yoboss grunted, hoisting me up. Pikachu hissed in protest. "Eyes will recover. Pain will keep you awake. Follow hills over rise, should make city before sundown."

I stared uncomprehending at the horizon, where the sun was slowly dipping. Was that it? I'd killed a man, aided in a massacre and illegally impersonated a League courier, all at the whims of the Ainu political party. And they were sending me on my way?

Yoboss heard this and smiled toothily, eyes hidden behind his reflective blue-blockers. "_Aknipa_."

I understood. I had Brock to owe for my freedom, perhaps my very life. I left a small ember of resentment burning, though. The elders had used me. They'd get theirs, one day.

Yoboss handed me my pokedex, startling me - I hadn't even noticed it was gone. "_Aknipa_ says we owe you a great debt for the wrong forced upon you." The commando shrugged, as if he couldn't care less. "There is new number in your phone. You need us, we come. No charge." He held up a finger before I could say anything. "Once."

I took it back, staring at the red casing mutely. I suppose that for risking my life, having a squad of Ainu black ops on firecall was some sort of repayment. I flipped it open in a reflexive gesture, checking my mail as a matter of habit. There were several from Blue.

_Hey loser,_

_And I thought I was a fuckin' show off. What the hell are you feeding that Pikachu, Red? You like my show? When do you get to Cerulean?_

That was dated over a day ago. There was another with a timestamp from just an hour ago.

_Yo,_

_If you're in Cerulean sometime today you can see me school some clowns in proper training at Nugget Bridge. Finals are tonight (they say 8:00, but it'll be 7:00 because I've seen the competition and I'm going to tear through them like a fucking sharpedo). Feel free to bring an extra pair of underwear for the ones you'll muss whilst beholding my greatness._

"A worthy foe." Yoboss rumbled. I looked to him. "I see Gary Oak on television when he fights _aknipa_. Much swagger. Much skill. Good eyes. Fierce." The warrior mused, before glancing slyly at me. "But you are fierce too, ah? Ha!"

I wondered at what Blue might have been doing hours ago. Eating? Training? Plotting? Not sleeping. Certainly not taking a man's life in his hands. Certainly not extinguishing it.

I looked at Yoboss, and asked him for advice. I didn't specify on what, but I'm sure he knew. He was silent for a moment.

"When I am young, I am trainer, like you. Pokebattler. I take life, I lose, I go broke, I grow old. I do not stop. I fall in love, get married. I do not stop. I have son." He paused. "I stop. Take life is simple. To make it...not." Yoboss wasn't smiling anymore.

"Taking life of Team Rocket? Pah. Scum. Is criminal organization. Charity is front. Be wary of them. Taking life of scum is nothing. Do not stop." The soldier began walking over to his squad, who were waiting to teleport back. "Cannot stop! Must make new life. I make life as father. You? Who knows, in age of child conquerors and boy kings? Trust in your little god, Red boy, and the others yet to join you- they will favor you! _Aknipa_ favors you!"

I commented on how well he seemed to know Brock. They began to shine luminously as they prepared to break down into light, the precursor to the idea of pokeballs. Yoboss laughed and grinned wide.

"Of course!" He said, loud and proud. "Is my son!"

In a flash of light, they were gone.

I thought about processing that little bombshell and decided I couldn't be fucked. I dug a few rations and my canteen out and began the slow trudge towards Cerulean City. At least with the cold of night beginning to blow in I didn't have to worry about ekans or arboks in the high grass, which were the main concern on Route 4. My feet felt like lead weights, but I kept going, Pikachu plodding along at my side. _Don't stop._ I thought. _Can't stop._

My mail dinged. It was Blue.

_Hey loser,_

_You know that fancy sandalwood sign in front of the Cerulean Gym?_

I did know it, it was on cover of every brochure concerning the Gym. There was a picture file attached. Warily, I clicked.

Smugly, Blue was posed for his pokedex's camera in front of the Cerulean Gym sign, with various people passing in the background. That wasn't the focus of the picture, though.

The focus of the picture, as so helpfully underlined by Blue's outstretched thumb, was a small carving near the bottom sign, which so tastefully read:

_Blue was here. Red is a loser_.

I stopped walking. I checked the time. I couldn't possibly make it to Cerulean in time for Blue's last match.

I looked back at the picture, and at Blue's smug fucking smirk.

_Blue was here. Red is a loser._

Maybe I was a killer now. Maybe my immortal soul was tainted, or I'd live with this guilt all my life, or the thousand other stories people told of men who take lives.

But that was fine. I had known I was running that risk before I even left Pallet Town. The path to Victory Road was ridden with far greater obstacles than a little emotional trauma. The goal hadn't changed. The Indigo Plateau, one way express. No stops. _Can't stop, won't stop._

I couldn't possibly make it to Cerulean in time.

I started running.

(=0=)

Cerulean's Nugget Bridge was an impressive landmark, built over the Cerulean Bay. It was large enough to qualify for it's own route designation of 24, connecting the city and the highly romanticized Cerulean Cape.

The Nugget Bridge challenge had actually come before it's golden paint-job and lights, put there after to the fact. Back during the days of the gold rush, before Pewter had claimed the Metals mountains fully as their own, the mine-owners used to hold a competition once a year for the largest full piece of gold extricated from the mines, as something for their workers to look forward to and dream after.

Times had changed and Cerulean made it's money from tourism now, but the tradition had caught on and the city officials saw no reason to let such a well-liked competition die out. It was revived and re-legitimized as a charity event, with all ticketing funds going to various good causes. The prize remained the same, to entice the more mercenary trainers; a large hunk of no-nonsense 24 karat gold, good for selling or remembering.

As the popularity of the challenge grew, the bridge itself gained additions to accommodate it. Suspended below the main bridge-road, over which the general populace and motorized vehicles made their way, a large coliseum bowl had been constructed, dipping partially into the water in order to allow for Water-type battles. The coliseum saw plentiful use in public events and exhibition matches during the rest of the year, but its biggest crowd by far always arrived now.

It took time and effort to struggle my way to the front of the mob gathered at challenger's entrance, all corralled behind two sets of chain to form a path. Quite a few had brought signs: _OAK GOES HARD!_ and _TOLERANCE FOR DARK-TYPES, GO BLACKY_ and _P-OAK-EFAGGOT_. It seemed that Blue's interview had already made ripples, in both direction. But then, he'd always known how to rile up controversy.

As Blue appeared, waving and smirking falsely as he made his way towards the podium, I almost thought he'd miss me. His eyes found mine in the rabble and his face brightened in true delight.

"Look what the skitty dragged in! Get under here." He cackled, ducking and weaving through his adoring fans grasping hands to pull me under the barricade. My figure and red hat drew murmurs like a lodestone, and I heard my name being passed around before we entered the dark coliseum passageway, the sounds of the gathered crowd fading away to echoes. "You look like you did ten cage rounds with a hitmonchan! How the fuck are you, you clown?"

For the first time, I noticed his newly evolved starter, golden fur glowing luminously next Pikachu's cherry red cheeks. Getting through to the front I had sworn my rat was about to murder someone at least a half dozen times, but now he seemed almost calm, despite being in the presence of another pokemon.

I asked after it, noting in particular the neat coat and rich color of the gold markings, like luminescent rorschach blots against a black canvas, signs that pointed to good health and keeping: naturally, I'd read up on umbreons after learning of Blacky's evolution. It was common practice to know in detail the pokemon of one's opponent. The pokedex entry and notes on dragonites was the highest frequented on the web, thanks to Lance, for instance.

Blue took the compliment like he owned it, smiling smugly. "Damn straight. Yours ain't so shabby yourself, Red. Bigger rat probably means he muscled his way into more food, so he's got the mindset. Good tail and long coat, means more surface area to pick up ambient juice, so he'll recharge quick.. Strange that he's not brownbacking yet, but that just means he'll be some kind of beast when he does. Against all odds, it seems you picked a winner, Red. But that's just how you roll, innit?" He chuckled. "And to think, all you had to do was take a bolt to the face."

I nodded. Then I told him I'd killed a man.

Blue blinked, and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as we ambled slowly towards the end of the tunnel. Light was growing, and we could hear the sound of the coliseum crowd, anxious and waiting. It was silent for a while.

Then he stopped, and asked, "You backing out, nemesis mine?"

Blue's voice was devoid of challenge or jape in tone. I'd never heard him speak so devoid of nuance before. I'd truly unsettled him. I knew that right now before me was the core of my rival exposed, stripped of his gild, craft and lie, unseen by eyes other than mine. It was humbling.

I smiled, and answered: _You fucking wish._

Blue choked up, and doubled over laughing. It wasn't a pleasant sound. He trailed off, and glanced up, his face obscured by shadow.

"Good." Gary hissed. "Because if you hadn't killed him, I would have killed him for trying." He rose, driving his finger into my chest, his face a rictus mutation of snarl and grin. "To be a trainer is to walk with death, and Victory Road is _paved_ with fucking corpses. Don't you go and forget, Red. You're _mine_." He punctuated that statement with another poke. "Until we've had our final say, you're not _allowed_ to die. So quit bitching and put your guns on!"

I nodded. It wasn't anything I didn't already know. Blue turned a shudder into a shrug, pulling his mask back on as he turned to face his next challenge.

"Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a bleeding heart to spank and gold to win, no good luck required." He sneered, fixing the collar of his jacket. Somehow, it didn't surprise me that he could pull off leather.

I carefully slapped him on the back anyway as he strode purposefully off. With his right thumb and index finger on his forehead he gave me the 'L' for loser as he stepped out onto the catwalk, the volume expanding dramatically as the light hit his figure.

I only smirked and waved. Blue turned and kept going, blissfully unaware.

There's nothing that can really wash away the feeling of slaying one's own kind. That's the truth of things, cut and clean. But you can move past it. And the first step to that? Watching your rival be informed by a stadium announcer that someone had taped a paper sign to his back.

It proclaimed: _PROPERTY OF RED_.

Sounded about right to me.

(=0=)

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry # 41 ( J. #37 ): Zubat._

_Basic Characteristics: Flying-type, poison-type. Double evolution, age based (see golbat) and sociocultural (see crobat). Lifespan 40-60 years, diet carnivorous (see zubat colony behavior). Typical evolution after 10-15 years. Avg. height 2'07", avg. weight 16.5 lbs. Leathery skin, extremely sensitive hearing, close connection to woobat (see woobat) evolutionary lineage._

_Description: A nuisance to cave-traveling trainers everywhere, zubats are well-known for their blood-sucking tendencies and high, irritating cries. While pop culture has linked them to vampires and costumed vigilantes, zubats are no real threat, considering they do not even feed themselves in the wild, and can be fended off quite easily. Rather, on average, golbats are the primary food-bringers for the colony, gorging themselves on blood to bring back to the host with the crobat leading and the zubats tending the unborn. A common misconception is that zubats are highly aggressive, but their tendency to latch onto warm bodies is merely a response born of fear and evolutionary instinct. _

_Nicknames: The Bat Pokemon, bats, pokebats, blackbiters, bloodsuckers, 'goddamn' zubats._

_"...Ah, zubats! Truly a marvel. While the amateur spelunker may indeed not see the attraction, zubats are more than just pests: they are a sign of life! After all, a colony cannot survive without a source of water, and can be followed back to such, and zubats themselves, while not particularly good eating raw, can sustain a lost trainer for weeks on end..."_

(=0=)

Porygonic: 1) Of or pertaining to porygons; 2) A device or complex machinery operated by a porygon.

Porygraphic: The physical form of a porygon, usually a soft light projection such as a holographic keyboard and monitor, which allows them to be transported outside of a assisting technological medium. A very advanced upgrade typically restricted to more expensive, high-end porygons. Theoretically, it is possible that a porygon could take a non-permeable light form by regulating the natural entropy of light particles and condensing them into a solid-state laser form, allowing them to interact with the physical world - however, no human progress on the subject has been made.


	8. 6: Pride

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Chapter Six

Pride

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_"One may understand the cosmos, but never the ego; the self is more distant than any star."_

- G.K. Chesterton, essayist

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Professor Oak sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose wearily. Months ago, he might have called it an exceptionally long day, but he's had so many of those recently that it no longer seems a statistically correct moniker.

Seated at his desk at home in his infamously casual clothes and lab coat, to any uninformed observer he may seem nothing more than a mere tired researcher, editing graduate papers and proposals seen a thousand times before in different iterations.

Such an observer would have to be exceptionally ignorant, however, to think Samuel Gerald Oak is a mere _anything_. He is the Pokemon Professor of Kanto and the Indigo League, and his modest townhouse is monitored constantly by no less than three rotating squads of ACE Trainers, any one of whom he could have at his command at mere gesture. What he is editing are legislative bills for business deregulation, all of which must bear his scrutiny before passing into regional law.

And he is not tired, merely overworked. Not overcome, mind you. He is an Oak, after all.

Still, it has been a _long _day, and the Pokemon Professor wants nothing more from the rest of the night than a warm cup of tea and sleep. Knowing his limits, he decides to take a small break to check his personal email, leaning back in his chair. Before he can move to do so, however, Anaximander, the porygon now connected to his home network for convenience, pulls up his inbox for him.

"Unsettling creature." Professor Oak mutters softly. The pokemon does not respond. It's easy to forget how close to sapient the porygons are, even with the cognitive limiters programmed into them. There's a reason the Porygon Project had received such generous League funding. As a fan of Clarke and Asimov, he wasn't about to let someone else hold the purse strings of the newly re-emerged artificial intelligence field.

He allows his suspicions to rest. Subservience and compliance are hardwired into each and every porygon, and the danger of an unshackled AI is limited by their society's sparse digital network.

There are a few new emails. He accesses the first, whose rude headline foretells the contents.

_Oak,_

_I've had enough of you and Blaine avoiding me like a fucking leper. I may have been project leader, but the past is the past, and I'm sure your hands are much dirtier than mine by now. All I want is to ply my trade. Take me off whatever blacklist you have me on and stop interfering with my life, or we will have problems._

_You aren't the only one that remembers Project Apotheosis._

_Fuji_

Oak sighes. It seems that Dr. Fuji has caught on. It is unfortunate. The man has a brilliant scientific mind, and has always lived in the long shadow of the Pokemon Tower and his brother's accomplishments. It is a sad thing to watch him suffocate under the weight of his own inferiority complex.

However, it isn't on Oak's own behalf that the he pursues the vendetta, making the man's very name anathema in the scientific field. Mood darkening, he scowls. He wonders what Dr. Fuji would say if he knew Blaine and him were the reason he is still alive at all.

Still, the cat is out of the bag. The good doctor is sure to get only nastier - Oak knows that the man still resents him for his Professorship and Blaine for his rise to Cinnabar leadership. It's time to warn Dr. Fuji away from the precipice he's unknowingly walking towards.

_This isn't a discussion, Seiji. We stole fire from god. If you keep cursing the braviary when it returns, perhaps next time your liver will not grow back._

_Your tulips look nice._

_Oak_

To underscore the point, the Professor attaches a picture from the man's ACE surveillance report which includes said flowers, taken from inside the man's very own apartment. Then, in a fit of piety, Professor Oak says a small prayer for Dr. Fuji, that the estranged scientist might take the hint, count his blessings and back off.

After all, he certainly _hopes _he won't be forced to kill the good doctor.

With that unpleasantness taken care of, Oak sees to the other emails. One is another from his granddaughter, yet another of those stock photos of a skitty with badly misspelled captions. The Pokemon Professor grimaces. He supposes it is too much to hope that Daisy might grow up after earning her second doctorate. But then, his grandson is now the Grand Champion of Indigo, and _he_ still sends emails laden with profanity and vulgar similes _and _still rides his bicycle all over Oak's lab like some Route 17 vagrant, despite the researcher's protests. The Professor wonders if the younger generation truly is going to the houndooms.

The last surprises him, finally. It is a message from Red. And right after Dr. Fuji's email, too.

"Speak of the devil." Professor Oak murmurs, artificial light illuminating his face in a harsh glow as he leans in.

After a moment, he sits back. There isn't much to the missive.

Professor Oak ponders a moment, fingers drumming the table. Then he shrugs, and stands up.

"Anaximander, I'm going out. Inform my protection detail."

"Yes Professor." An animatronic male voice answers warmly.

Professor Oak sheds his lab coat for a garment more suited for outdoors, a well-worn leather jacket. Grabbing his wallet and keys, he makes for the door and stops after a moment's hesitation, snapping one of his pokeballs off his belt where it hangs on the ball and sticking it in his pocket.

Then he opens the door, and departs into the night.

(=0=)

My time in Cerulean was an enjoyable one, to be sure, a pleasant relief from the bare-knuckle tension of Pewter. I had a badge, I had money, and I had my pokemon, and there I was, in the scenic seaside jewel of Kanto. While it was no fortress city like Viridian, Saffron or Celadon, there were more than enough attractions to hold the interest of a young man my age for the duration of my stay.

That's not to say I was slacking off. In fact, I filed an appointment to battle Misty right on the way back from Nugget Bridge.

The problem was, that the Cerulean Gym and City worked hand in hand to keep you there, funneling as much money into the tourism industry as possible. The application usually took a week to file, and then you had up to another two weeks (or more!) of waiting in order to actually battle Misty. But people still did it. Why?

I see your lips curling. Professional disdain, I suppose? Because everyone knows Cerulean Gym is the easiest gym in the Indigo League.

Misty's gym challenge consists of a series of six matches, organized in three sets, spaced over the course of days, in order to simulate fighting different species of Water-type pokemon. The first two sets would be freshwater and saltwater pokemon, and the third would be both. Each set would consist of one match with a gym trainer, followed by one match with Misty. Both the gym trainer and Misty would offer advice and instruction after each match, with the price of the challenge gaining you access to online in-depth lectures on each subject by Misty whether you win or lose.

In other words, a complete joke. Three softball matches with overpaid contractors followed by the Gym Leader herself babying you into a Cascade Badge. Misty claimed to place 'imparting knowledge of Water pokemon over the glory of any personal victory'. Certainly, when more skilled challengers, champions and famous Battle Tower trainers came calling, she brought out her A-game, but only to keep up appearances. In reality, it was a official Indigo League Badge which you could buy, if you were willing to shell out the lucrative Gym Challenge fee and not pay too much mind to the man behind the curtain.

I had considered the morality of such a thing versus the weight of my own pride as a trainer in long detail as I mapped my route through the Kanto gym circuit. Ultimately, it was a deal I simply couldn't afford to pass up. Turning around to challenge a real gym in Johto would have cost me more money, time and trouble than I could afford if I wanted to keep up with Blue, which was the ends that justified my limited means - and in the end, it was Misty debasing herself, not me.

As Gym Leader, no matter what she owed to her bloodthirsty team of top agents and PR men, she still could have designed a gym challenge that tested skill instead of the depth of one's wallet. Misty, despite her love for the spotlight, was a vicious contender in every Championship with her team of top pedigree monsters; there was no basis for doubting her competency, only her idealogy. Disdaining a shameless hedonist would do nothing but waste energy.

So I contented myself to enjoy the downtime in the city of the materialistic, taking care not to deflate my newly fattened purse too soon.

I spent my money on practical things, and held myself back from things beyond my needs. While a full set of magmar-forged Cinnabarean body armor or a collapsible repeating crossbow with full optics and laser sight might have indeed improved my personal safety, it would be that many more pounds to carry as I made my way through Kanto on foot.

In all honesty, an extra bag of rations was more likely to save my life than any weapon or armor piece - there weren't many truly dangerous pokemon that would be stopped or even deterred by any one human weapon. Trainers didn't rely on pokemon for novelty. If a rhyhorn was bearing down on you, it wasn't eighty bolts per minute that was going to save your life. It was the horse-sized fire-breathing wolfhound you had in your pocket.

So instead of cleaning out the military surplus store, I bought bought two new sets of clothes to replace my old ones. I replaced my shoes. I put new batteries in my pokedex and refilled my rations can with trail mix and water purification tablets. I purchased a newer, better knife. I kept all the perfectly functional equipment I had - a compass that could tell time also was not worth the extra twenty idols when mine was perfectly functional, and my rope had plenty of strength and tension left in it without being interwoven with steel thread.

I kept my pokebattling uniform, the red coat on black shirt. My sense of style hadn't changed and the clothes were in near mint condition.

And the hat, of course. But that went without saying.

The rest was spent on the real necessities - the trainer equipment. Balls, food, antidotes, panaceas for various ills. Being the master of such creatures brought great power, and with it, great expenditure reports. If you are a trainer and spend more money on yourself than the pokemon you capture and train, you are simply doing it wrong.

Finally, I did as my profession suggested. I trained. The hills of Cerulean were rife with wild pokemon, and one could make a decent sum catching and selling the elusive and rare abra that blinked around the area.

I happened to have a higher success rate than most, my Butterfree's sleep powder dulling the Psychic-types senses until it was too late for them to escape, while Pikachu dutifully kept the glooms and ekans away with sharp shocks. It was a profitable trade which replenished the funds the greedy city drained from me, and I could feel my starter growing stronger with the steady meals and constant exercise. I would have loved to catch a kadabra, as they were excellent battling pokemon with their physical and mental telekinesis, but I never saw a one, and the evolution of an abra took several years. Most kadabra left the area to wander the route-less wilds immediately upon evolution, and if any odd birds decided to remain I never found them.

Time was a large problem for me in that way. Most pokemon evolved over the course of years rather than by any special mechanisms, with only uncommon exceptions, such as Bug-types who had a naturally short evolutionary cycle. It was, of course, possible to purchase pokemon at prime fighting age, but such pokemon were highly prized and priced and typically snapped quickly up on the market.

One thing was clear: I needed money. More than I could get just skunking abras.

So, after three days of training, I took my swing at the Nugget Bridge Challenge.

(=0=)

The Nugget Bridge Challenge consisted of multiple five round tournaments culminating in a battle royale between the winners of all of them. I'd dodged a bullet today I hadn't heard of any big name trainers competing today, which was pure luck: yesterday there'd been Dane Dogman, two Young Arcanines champions and a Finalist slumming it, any one of whom would have kicked my ass like a hitmonlee with an anal fixation.

The most difficult match I'd had involved an electabuzz with a very bad attitude. He could tank electric attacks with the natural fortitude of his type to start with, and his particular species used their excessive bioelectricity to speed up blood-clotting and tissue growth, allowing for high-speed regeneration. It spent most of the match trying to close the distance with Pikachu, which would have ended in my loss. Finally, the ogre-like creature got frustrated enough to start tossing some bolts of its own, which depleted his energy and only resulted in Pikachu absorbing them and throwing them right back in his face. Eventually the electric collosus toppled, allowing me to advance.

While pikachu were naturally among the most biologically suited conductors and redirectors of electricity among Electric-types, that match brought to my attention that it happened to my starter's strong suit in particular, taking in offensive bolts like they were his to begin with and tossing them back with twice the force. I pondered whether it was a product of his isolation, that he had been forced to refine his control without the benefit of other Pikachu to reroute the charge through. I filed it away for later thought.

In any case, the other trainers fell like dominoes. The dominating metagame of pokebattling favored heavy bruisers with few type disadvantages, who could take their licks and still slug it out, with Dragon-types being the kings of that game. It was a smart strategy, as it minimized the risks of loss or career ending injury - there were few hits a hardy pokemon couldn't come back from with today's technology.

Unfortunately, this metagame did nothing to prepare them for a comparatively tiny rat juking around the arena like a dervish, peppering them with electric murder and what I assumed were many insults in the pokemon tongue. The closest any of them got to laying a hand on my vermin was an older growlithe in the second round who danced around the bolts and just managed to get his teeth around the tip of Pikachu's tail, and got dropped like a sack of rocks right after, as befitting any creature that decided to put a lightning rod in it's mouth.

Still, I was lucky. For one, all the pokemon so far had their fleshy, electricity-weak bits exposed. A graveler or other type advantage bruiser would ruin me - Pikachu would just expend himself against it, forcing me to forfeit the match, as there was no way my starter was taking down any Rock-type in a battle of physical attrition without a military-grade power generator like the Pewter Gym had backing him up. For two, this wasn't exact the creme of the crop. These were local and visiting trainers looking to serve the community or get some practice. Pokebattlers who had already made their mark had better things to do.

But I was here now. That was all that mattered. With a nudge, I sent Pikachu onto the field, where he waited for the other trainers to release their pokemon from the balls he was no longer constrained by.

The coliseum floor had been converted into a generic battleground, complete with dirt and rocky outcroppings, not totally unlike the Pewter Gym floor. To acommodate Grass-types, the soil would be fertile, and to acommodate Water-types, the arena was ringed by a moat. Flying-types would be confined to a height no higher than the coliseum walls. The idea was to allow an even chance to all different types.

While it was a slow day for celebrities, the seats were still filled to packing - audience members from all of the five-round tournaments had reserved seats to see their winners participate in the royale. I was told that there'd even been people sitting on the stairs for Blue's. In a stroke of misfortune, he'd had the ill luck to compete on the same day as Lorelei, who was famous for her philanthropism and always made an appearance at Nugget Bridge on behalf of the Elite Four and the impoverished Sevii Islands. She'd forfeited out of good manners at the start of the match, of course, which was the real pity - I'm sure Blue would have killed for a battle with her, even a mock one.

While I hardly drew the same notice as Blue, I noticed a few members of the audience pulling for me rather vocally. Whether they had followed the entertaining spectacle of Pikachu or were leftovers of the hype from my Pewter victory didn't matter. It was a nice feeling.

Luckily, I did not recognize any of the trainers on the opposing podiums, which I thought spoke well for my chances.

Or so I thought.

There were around a dozen other royale participants battling today. They prepared their pokeballs, and I tensed as the opening bell, a relic from before Cerulean Hydroelectric was ever established, was rung, waiting to see what hand I had drawn.

Pokemon exploded onto the field and I tracked the biggest threats as soon as they appeared - a medicham near my side, a lightning quick seviper a quarter rotation away that darted away immediately, a burly looking poliwrath summoned directly into the moat, and what I thought was the worst I would have to deal with, a craggy rhydon that bellowed throatily and began building up speed immediately for a charge.

Then the last pokemon was released, and the marrow shook in all our bones as a dragon's roar split the air.

A charizard materialized in red light and immediately took to the skies, belching strips of flame onto the field. An unlucky ursaring was caught up in the literal line of fire and starting screaming at pitches no bear should be able to produce. The white flag rose from his trainer's podium immediately, and the mistermimes maintaining the arena boundaries reacting, a psychic bubble cocooning the ursine pokemon and lifting it out of danger to be recalled into his trainer's pokeball.

A brave starraptor, the only other flying pokemon in the competition, made a pass at reestablshing air superiority, but it was for naught. The bird's claws raked a shallow gash in the dragon's leathery hide which might as well have bounced off for all the damage it did, drawing the charizard's attention and provoking a retaliatory blast of purging fire. The flames barely had a chance to lick the starraptor's feathers before it was recalled, it's trainer being faster on the button than the ursaring's.

Two down. The rhydon's trainer followed suit shortly thereafter, voluntarily surrendering - a smart choice, considering his pokemon had nothing to close the gap between land and sky. Despite the quick removal of two threats, I almost followed suit.

This was the terror of wyrms. The charizard, while male and hence much smaller than it's female counterparts, dwarfed the other pokemon of the royale by a good margin, being the approximate size of a fucking cottage. Then you had to consider its ability to spam beams of immolating fire, and the fact that charizards could and frequently did chew raw ore to improve the heat of their flames.

The difference in power was so obvious it was considered unfair by some. Diehard supporters of Giovanni often suggested it as a reason for the Grand Champion's mysterious and unprecedented resignation before his match with Lance, as protest against the future of pokebattling he saw: one where Dragon-types and their trainers ruled like kings. Despite Lance exercising less executive power than any Champion previous, the accusation still lingered - what were common trainers to do, when only top-tier type-advantaged pokemon and trainers could hope to even compete against the power of Dragon-types?

Dragons were extremely rare, slow to age and evolve and downright life-threatening to train. But the end result was undeniable; a pokemon which trumped near every other card in the deck.

I hadn't a prayer of defeating it myself. But it was that very thought that prompted me to hold back my surrender call.

This wasn't a match. This was a battle royale.

The remaining trainers had recognized the charizard as the obvious threat to sweep the Challenge if un-addressed, and had turned to face it for the most part. A few still went on fighting the other pokemon, in the hopes to improve their standings, or perhaps in blithe defiance of their impending loss. Their motivation didn't matter. What mattered was that my only hope of victory was allowing the tankier pokemon to whittle the charizard down, and that they were interfering with that.

I directed Pikachu at them individually. I noticed the poliwrath and medicham off to the side, unmoving, the pokemon and their trainers clearly formulating a plot via the medicham's psychic capabilities. Sensing the opportunity to strike, a rapidash with a wickedly curved born charged, flames flaring out like banners as it accelerated massively.

A blast of electricity struck it in the side, sending the hellish mount down in a heap. It regained muscle control quickly, dodging the next few bolts with unreal accuracy as it broke off towards Pikachu, but it lost sight as it lowered it's horn into goring position and took another hard shock to the haunches, crashing to the ground in a jumbling heap of limbs, easy pickings for Pikachu's instant coup de grace.

A bubble of psychic energy blossomed around the felled rapidash, and as my starter broke off, I felt a surge of pride. A feral might have pursued further combat, but Pikachu had come far - no longer a savage beast, but rather, a edge rapidly being honed to full sharpness.

In this I saw the future potential of my starter, not as a heavyweight trader, but rather as a blade, able to dart in like a scalpel with unerring precision and disengage with the same swiftness, a true terror of the battlefield.

Pikachu tagged the withdrawing rapidash's bubble with a disgruntled bolt and I smirked ruefully. One day, at least.

The other pokemon were retreating or being called back. It was only the poliwrath, medicham and I left to face the dragon. I signalled Pikachu to hang back and evade, not a difficult thing to do given his size. I frowned as I watched the charizard chase a retreating foe nearly to the edge of the arena, flames actually licking off the psychic barrier erected to protect the spectators. They cheered at the spectacle, of course, but it was bad sportsmanship.

But then, what need had the drake's trainer for courtesy with such power at his disposal? I could see him distantly, a tight-faced young man only a few years older than me whose voice was drowned out in the roars of his own creature.

I sensed the signal before it came, my gaze snapping back to the medicham and poliwrath right before they broke off, the muscled blue amphibian leaping into the outer moat as the medicham darted off, dodging the charizard's fire blasts with the precognitive grace of his species, always twisting just enough to avoid destruction.

It was said a medicham could dodge anything that could be dodged. The charizard put this to the test, boxing the hybrid psychic-fighting type with alternating fireballs and swaths of flame. Stones rose from the battlefield and struck the dragon in its tender wings, enraging it. The medicham was an obvious distraction. But how long could it evade?

The margin of distance between fire and flesh decreased. The medicham was ungodly, but it couldn't leap out of the way when the ground was all embers. Suddenly, the meditating pokemon cut left sharply, the charizard banking at an angle that laughed at physics to follow. The medicham was heading towards the edge, where the moat circled the pitch.

The only warning was a shadow like quicksilver through the water. The poliwrath exploded from from the moat, propelled by its massive swimming muscles and no doubt some psychic assistance from the medicham, hitting the dragon midair like a blue cannonball. The two went down in a heap, and the crowd cheered.

The poliwrath was up in a flash, chest bulging cartoonishly before the pokemon expelled a deluge of water, which impacted the charizard with monstrous force. I winced in spite of myself. There were Water-types that could release water at pressures sufficient to cut stone. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of such a blast.

The dragon tucked its ever-burning tail behind itself, preventing any life-threatening injuries, but struggled to rise, stunned by the assault despite its tough skin and constitution. The poliwrath wasted no time, wading in with heavy haymakers, laying down a shock and awe campaign on the dragon's skull with its spade-like fists. The charizard hunched and tried to weave back and out of the way, but it was already punch drunk, and saurian bones or not, the poliwrath was playing piano the drake's head with ivory anvils, broken up by brief machine guns of water to keep it off balance. The male was tough, but not this tough.

The climax approached, as the meaty Water-type caught the charizard in merciless headlock, right under the massive dragon's crest. I saw the medicham approaching, glowing with psychic power. Psychic attacks worked best with contact, and I surmised that whatever the medicham was preparing - likely some cranial-based mental sucker-punch - would put the charizard out like a light, Dragon-type or no Dragon-type (which the charizard was technically not, due to various genetic technicalities).

I surmised that this was the time to strike, and gave the order.

Like an outtakes reel, I watched the trainer's mouth open in silent horror as Pikachu leapt up from his hiding place, form outlined in crackling lightning, and strike down the medicham from behind with a thunderbolt, too fast and too sudden for the precognitive hybrid to avoid, concentrated as it was on it's objective. It's charge ended in a twitching heap, limbs convulsing as my pokemon viciously followed up, until a purple bubble suffused the medicham, signalling its recall.

From the very beginning, this had been my plan. While the charizard was without a doubt the biggest threat, the medicham had always been the biggest problem. The charizard, while of the dragon family, was also a Flying-type, which meant his massive bones were also largely hollow by necessity to facilitate such flying, which made electric currents go through it like Fuschian cuisine - Pikachu's attacks, while not finishing, would be more effective than most. The poliwrath was an afterthought; it might be a bullet in the water, but water was obviously conductive, and the Water-type hadn't a prayer of catching Pikachu on land without getting fried.

But the medicham could sense the bolts before they were coming, and lightning couldn't change direction mid-air. Pikachu would expend himself blasting spots the medicham had vacated a half-second earlier, and then the psychic fighting-type would close the distance and beat the snot out of him.

Unless, of course, the precog could be distracted. I couldn't have known about the finishing move, but I had suspected that the two would double-team the charizard, and devoting anything less than your full attention when dealing with any member of the bloodline of wyrms was asking to be killed. And who would mind a tiny rat pokemon when there was a giant fire-spewing lizard to be taken care of?

Dirty? Underhanded? Absolutely. But betrayal and division are the politics of war.

And now it was just the poliwrath and the dragon, and the dragon had regained its wind.

The charizard's wings flared as it exploded straight upwards into the sky, the poliwrath dangling from his neck like a collar. Maybe another minute or a better hold might have seen the dragon into strangled unconsciousness, but off the ground and hanging on for dear life, the muscled amphibian simply didn't have the leverage.

I had a moment to wonder when the charizard was going to bank to avoid the barrier before it crashed straight into them, realizing belatedly that it had never intended to, smashing the poliwrath against the invisible wall with all it's titanic momentum.

The poliwrath went limp, tumbling from the wyrm's neck to plummet like a stone towards the ground. A red laser-line of light lanced from the trainer's podium, enveloping the defeated brawler and saving it an impact that would have no doubt exacerbated it's already serious injuries. His podium in particular was one of the closer ones to mine, enough so that I could see the foul look he shot me as he did.

I ignored it, and swept my hand forward.

A massive bolt of lightning smote the charizard as it descended, illuminating it's profile in light, all the leftover juice Pikachu had at his disposal in one mighty blow. The dragon roared in fury as his limbs locked up, and fell to earth...

...only to regain control at the last second, just managing to flare his massive orange wings, turning a nasty crash into a skidding crash, talons scrabbling against stone. It howled a challenge, battlecry intermixed with fire.

I blinked, and very deliberately called Pikachu back.

What? Pikachu had taken his biggest swing, and it had whiffed. Another part of battle is knowing when to fold them. The charizard was obviously an old hand, if it's resilience and mastery of the battlefield were any indication, and there was no way in hell I was throwing my starter in with it alone, let alone drained and out of juice. Some gaps of strength were not so easily bridged.

So I wouldn't be receiving my own big fat gold nugget. Big deal. Runner-up's prize was a week at a fully paid five-star hotel.

Pikachu, albeit grumpily, began making his way back towards my podium, and that was when I abruptly realized the charizard wasn't stopping.

Screaming for revenge, it swooped down from the skies, flames extending from it's maw. Horrified, my hands flew through several mime hand-signals instinctively - 'help' and 'defend' and 'oh shit' - before I came to my senses and lunged for the surrender signal, a translucent psychic barrier exploding around Pikachu as the fire bridged the gap.

I breathed a sigh of relief as my starter floated back towards me, the charizard circling the mistermimes' barrier and roaring for another victim. A cold fury rose in me as I noticed Pikachu favoring his leg as he touched down, slightly singed from the nearly deadly sucke-rpunch.

In that moment, I understood completely the impotence many trainers felt in the face of Dragon-types. To control them took skill, but even uncontrolled they could rampage all over the competition, and in a setting like this, who could stop them?

I noticed another figure in the charizard trainer's box, an old man, seemingly locked in a furious argument with the younger, and turned away in disgust to face the medic team rushing up the stairs as the announcer awkwardly declared him the winner, cradling the protesting Pikachu to my chest.

It was then I ran straight into yet another familiar face from Pallet, the second since I had arrived in Cerulean City.

Akiha Green, the sheriff's daughter, started as I called her by name, stunned at the coincidence. Only then did I notice her nametag, which read an entirely different name (and her nurse outfit, which I decided looked rather fetching on her).

Ignoring her co-worker, she smiled blithely, "Excuse me, sir?" She asked, a perfect picture of polite perplexion. At the same time, she flashed a quick military hand-sign with her left hand: _halt formation_.

Later, then. All right, then. I could use something to keep me from brooding over the charizard trainer's poor sportsmanship, and the story of how the salutatorian of our graduating class, the girl I'd given my first time to, had ended up impersonating a medical professional under a false name was bound to be interesting.

(=0=)

"It was a close thing, but he'll be perfectly fine. Won't even scar." Green assured me, setting down a tube-nozzled can of some regenerative concoction, as I watched pink skin spread over the burned area. Pikachu grumbled and settled down on his haunches, scratching it lightly. "You were lucky. I was watching, and the barrier leapt up a second before your signal. I guessed the mistermimes must have sensed something."

I shrugged, not really wanting to think too closely on it. Instead, I inquired after her choice of attire, and jokingly after what her father might have done to have her abandon the name he gave her.

Green glanced around at the other nurses bustling about the crowded sickbay. "Have lunch with me." She offered, and I agreed.

After a brief hour apart, wherein I went off to confirm my winnings with the hotel (the nicest in Cerulean, where I would be staying in one of the champion suites with a generous expense account for room service) and she produced a military sat phone and immediately began shouting at it, we reunited at one of the nicer outdoor cafes in Cerulean, near the bay, whose clear surface dazzled in the failing light.

I had time to appreciate the sight of her as she approached my table. Green wasn't attractive in the socially popularized way, that slapped you in the face with swaying hips and lush lips, not that she lacked either, nor the shy, girl-next-door way that was sometimes offered as the equivalent opposite. Instead, there was a sense of complete control about her, fully confident and comfortable in her own body, well-kept and at ease, without pretense. She kept her light brown hair long, but neat and un-snarled by any stylish curls or licks. Her skin was clear, of imperfection or cosmetic enhancement.

She was unashamedly athletic. While I was certainly stronger with my own diligent physical conditioning, I could tell from her biceps and high-sculpted calves that she'd easily dominate the average untrained male. Her body took the normally alluring nurse outfit and turned it into something entirely dangerous.

"I work for ACE." Green began without preamble, plopping down into the seat across from me and stealing a french fry. She hadn't changed out of her uniform, but now sported a ludicrously sized flowerpot, out of the top of which protruded a large bulb which...quivered?

My suspicions were confirmed as her starter's head emerged from the soil, curious eyes surveying us. I vaguely remembered ,it from the graduation ceremony. She smiled warmly, running the pad of her thumb over his head. Pikachu, startled by the appearance, scrambled out of my lap with a hiss and curled around the back of my shoulders, glaring in suspicion.

"They scouted me as infiltrator out of school." Green continued on, eyeing my burger with interest. With a sour look, I put half of it onto my side dish and pushed it towards her. She didn't even smirk as she accepted it, which was somehow more annoying. "My personality has always been more..._malleable_than most, and I had the skills. They haven't told me, but I've picked up from smoke and hints that I'm one of several my age that were recruited."

Green then stopped and somehow destroyed her half of my burger in under thirty seconds with perfect manners. Strong, ropelike vines grew from her flowerpot and stretched across the table as her starter curiously perused the table's contents. It went for my milkshake and was rudely rebuffed as Pikachu zapped the offending agricultural appendage, which quickly retreated, the curious eyes disappearing as Green's pokemon quickly burrowed back into the pot. I snorted and scratched his ear.

"There's an organization that's been buying up a lot of young talent lately." Green explained, smiling slightly as she watched the interaction. "They were one of the sponsors of Nugget Bridge this year, which was why I was inserted. They were headhunting the winners, sometimes aggressively."

I thought back to the many ads and sponsor messages I'd heard during the proceedings and could think of only one culprit. Team Rocket.

That was enough to elicit a pause from my schoolmate. Green folded her hands and smiled, but I could tell our interaction had gotten just slightly colder. I noticed her starter watching again, having reemerged from the dirt when I wasn't looking.

"What do you know?" She asked.

I stopped to consider before I spoke. It was all and well that I knew her from my childhood, but that wasn't who I was talking to anymore.

This wasn't Akiha Green, sheriff's daughter, drinking my milkshake across the table. This was ACE, king high bastard of all clandestine organizations and agencies.

There wasn't a government outside of Indigo that didn't have a division modeled after them. Some even said that there was no competition or copycat agencies, that there was just ACE, spread out across every living human region, wars and conflicts and regional borderlines merely a masquerade they allowed to maintain the illusion of individual governance.

Not the case, as I know now, of course. But frighteningly close.

So it was ACE. Across the table. Drinking my milkshake, which I snatched irritably back, fiddling with the rim of my hat as I deliberated.

I told Green an abridged version of the truth. Far greater than the danger of lying to ACE was the danger of them thinking I knew anything of actual import. I told her I'd noticed a wrecked Team Rocket operation while passing through Mt. Moon, and, deciding that anyone capable of wreaking that much havoc was none of my business, had decided to pass it by without reporting anything.

Since Team Rocket operated largely on the level, being a fully legitimized charity organization, I guessed that it would be enough information for an organization like ACE to act on, tracing the money flow and zoning reports. A surprising amount of information-gathering is largely bureaucratic: Team Rocket, secretly malignant criminal organization or not, still had to file their paperwork somewhere.

I want you to pay attention to that. That I never bought into the mythos or facade of untouchability, not even in the beginning. Even now, more canny and far more wary, captured and stripped of my power, I want you to pay attention, to know:

I do not fear you.

However, I did reason that if you had existed for this long without being taken down that you wouldn't be sleuthed by such conventional means. Mt. Moon was big and easily lost in, and I certainly didn't want some Ainu graveyard watch mistaking Green for a poacher, or worse, an investigating Rocket agent. So I suggested she talk to Brock first for assistance navigating the mountain, resolving to send him an email informing him to expect and help her accordingly, and so avoid revealing the true nature of my relationship with the gym leader.

It was partially successful.

"Oh? You're on a first name basis?" She probed teasingly. I quickly denied this, but I had no idea whether she bought it.

Green seemed to believe the rest, or at least accept what I told her. She traced her manicured nail around the rim of my cup, seemingly lost in thought as she drew up her mental notes - I knew the look, as I wore it often enough. One of the reasons we had got on so quickly at the graduation party was in the immediate sense of familiarity I felt, the sort of kinship shared between two people who happen to share similar attitudes.

It was only coincidence that our paths hadn't intersected significantly before that night, and from that very meeting we were already comfortable acquaintances just by remembrance. I wondered a moment at how close we might have been had we been less distant growing up.

Only a moment, however, a rare indulgence. The past was as it was, unchangeable, and I doubted she found melancholia or nostalgia any more productive than I did. What-ifs were for failures.

Green sighed, finally. "Let's have sex."

And I was no failure.

I almost inhaled my entire straw. It's not as if the thought had been far from my mind, but bluntness was it's own element of surprise, especially on a subject I had every experience of being coy about this subject. I remembered (drunkenly) admiring her directness on the night we properly became acquainted, so I had known of course she was no Sinnoan nun, but I had no idea it was a trait of hers to this extent.

Helplessly, the first thing that tumbled out of my mouth was a question. I will admit now and forever that when it comes to affairs of the fairer sex that I am not a clever man.

Green glared, though I had the sense it was only half at me. "Well, it's like this. Since I joined up, I've been blindfolded, drugged, abandoned in strange locales to fend for myself, undergone organizational hazing disguised as counter-interrogation instruction, and generally been fucked around with by sadistic operative instructors in the name of training. Then they stick me in this racket, chasing a lead that my cover is frankly terrible for."

"Now, don't get me wrong. I'm grateful to you for sharing. The ACE promotion ladder is seniority based for the most part, and very slow-moving, and in a case as big as this, a tip like yours could be my big break. _If _it's valid. Which, as soon as I report it, they are going to have me crawling through dark tunnels ankle deep in zubat shit to verify." Her gaze shifted, allowing the entire weight of her ire to drop on me. It was not inconsiderable. "There's also the fact that you've blown my cover at the Challenge. Gossip like what you provided is what nurses live for, as you'll discover if you spend even a week ingratiating yourself with them. Which I did." She grit her teeth. "Thanklessly."

"So basically, ACE is not as glamorous as it's cracked up to be, and is actually a giant sausage club of old jingoists with chessmaster complexes, and I've been under a lot of stress, and am about to be under more, and I'm kind of homesick, and I feel like staying in a real hotel for once, and you don't need to buy me dinner since I ate yours, and I'm really done wasting effort justifying this." Green finished abruptly, gathering up her bag and flowerpot, uprooted soil falling as she stood, cocking an eyebrow at me challengingly. "I _do_ have my own lodgings, and if you make me argue this another second then I'll just go there and let you go watch cable in your swanky hotel room and _wonder _where exactly I hide my three other pokeballs. I'll give you hint: they're not in my purse."

I sat back, momentarily poleaxed by the onslaught of forwardness.

One small voice in my head suggested I point out that I was never arguing in the first place.

That voice was never heard from again.

I stood up, threw a twenty idol note on the table, and the rest, as they say, was history.

(=0=)

In the morning, I awoke to an empty bed. I caught of flash of red in my peripheral vision, and looked to see Green already up, fiddling with her face in the bathroom mirror, morning light streaming in through the window. I guess she has a face to put on like any other girl. I surmised wrongly.

She noticed me staring, and glanced at me. "Morning." She offered, blinking rapidly.

I grunted an affirmative, rising to make myself decent. An angry squeal came from within the closet, and I slid open the door, admitting a very grumpy Pikachu to the room. I'd imprisoned him there once it became clear that the time for talking was over - I wasn't about to put on a show for a pokemon.

Moody little twit. I even gave him poketreats, and it wasn't as if he wouldn't have slept there anyway. And from the looks of things, he seemed to want more.

I glared at him sullenly. No. Not without something in return.

Carefully, I reached into my bag and pulled out an object that made him hiss and jerk back. A brush.

It wasn't as if Pikachu didn't keep his fur clean, but it was unkempt. I wasn't much one for gussying up, but I did like to be presentable, and Pikachu looked two days out of the woods. He hadn't responded well before. But now I had leverage and time to ply the matter.

I pulled out some poketreats and and held them in my hand. I picked up the brush with the other. The message was abundantly clear.  
>Pikachu gave me the stink eye.<p>

I smirked, and popped a poketreat in my mouth mockingly. I made a great show of chewing and swallowing the disgusting thing (perfectly safe for humans, just not terribly appetizing), then glanced speculatively at the rest in a very casual manner.

Growling, Pikachu leapt up onto the bed and prowled into my lap, ears flicking backwards in disapproval as I set to straightening his unruly coat. And I let him at the treats, of course. That was how trades worked.

I wouldn't have mentioned the little interlude but for the way I turned and caught Green, now staring at me, smiling in a mysterious and thoughtful way. I flushed some, realizing the ridiculous sight of myself - a shirtless boy with bed-head brushing out a great yellow rat.

I look back now with greater wisdom, and wonder if that's the moment when she decided.

Back to the moment, I immediately switched focus, asking her what made ACE worth working for, if the personnel treatment was really so terrible. Green snapped out of her musing, and crossed her arms, glancing sideways in consideration.

"Pride." She said finally, smiling faintly. "I always planned to take a job in law or security, but...militia? Rangers? I'm capable of more. The military and other parts of the government may keep society in order, but ACE protects society itself. Humanity as whole would have cut ourselves to pieces if not for the Champion, and we are the inheritors and guardians of that legacy. The vanguards against extinction. If I'm able, if I possess the _ability_ to take up that mantle, how could I be satisfied holding any lesser responsibility? It's not about honor or duty. It's ego. Yeah, it's hard." And Green's smile stretched into a full, humorless grin, a predator's salute, all teeth and defiance. "But _I'm harder_. I don't like how the organization has been built, Red. That's why I plan to rise to the top and _destroy_ it from the apex down, to rebuild it myself, back up to it's previous heights and beyond, to what I believe it could be. I'm not doing it for anyone but me, and that's why it's pride. Because I _know_ I'm right, and I'll tear ACE down to _prove_ it."

I rocked back a bit. I had no idea Green's ambitions ran so deep. I could feel it now, the weight of her conviction, filling the room with the power of her will. There was no doubt, not even room for it to exist. I'd felt it before, in Blue. She really was a bird of our feather.

The oppressive aura disappeared, and Green looked down, rummaging in her purse. "Which is why I need to ask you a favor." Before I could react, she produced a pokeball, and snapped it open.

Crimson pokepower erupted onto the floor of the hotel suite, and I jerked back. Pikachu squeaked and leapt free, clambering up onto a dresser. I noticed that he'd scarfed all the poketreats while I was distracted, and I hadn't been even half done brushing him. Sneaky little fuck. The light coalesced and became solid.

It was Green's starter from the previous day. It was a bulbasaur.

A squat, wide creature about the size and height of a footrest, he - a male - bore mottled cyan skin and a wide bulb on his back, set into an overgrowth of twisted vines and slowly growing leaves, ready to uncurl and entangle at a moment's notice. Standing on all four stumpy legs, the top of his bulb reached about mid thigh, and I could tell from the leaves and pigmentation of his skin that he was close to his next evolution. His face was impish and eager, angular and stretched wide over his large skull, growing incisors poking out under his upper lips.

And he was friendly. The bulbasaur immediately waddled forward, vines uncurling and curiously encircling my calves. I chuckled and scratched one leathery ear flap.

I couldn't help but like him. I looked up, and found Green watching me somberly.

"It's good you like him." The girl said quietly. "Because I need you to keep him."

Her words hung in the air like nonsensical babble, as if they didn't fit right together. Then they clicked,and I reeled.

"It's a requirement for the job." Green spoke slowly, but each wroth syllable seethed with a restrained fury. "All agents have to give up their starter pokemon. Their loss or injury could be emotionally compromising. _Emotionally compromising_. This was the statute that almost broke the deal for me. But for my damned pride." She smiled bitterly. "They give you time to find a proper home, of course, but I don't want to send Daikoku to some breeder. I want you to take him."

I was speechless.

"That's his name, Daikoku. There was a pre-pokemon legend...but you wouldn't know it. I've seen how you treat your pokemon so I know that you'll do right by him. I've already ordered a month's worth of fertilizer for him, Celadon grade: I'll have it sent here. Please take him."

It wasn't even a decision. The venusaur evolution was a terrific defense and attrition pokemon, tanking hits with it's saurian genes and controlling battlefields with its variety of poisons and botanical weapons. They weren't fast, but they didn't have to be. And they evolved at the rate of consumption, which, with such high grade food, would have me an ivysaur before the month was out. I would take him. He'd be a terrific asset against Misty's gym.

But it was her starter pokemon. Even benching them was hardly ever done. Trading them was downright unheard of. Giving them away was straight out. I stumbled over a few offers of remuneration.

"No!" Green snapped angrily, then subsided. "You don't need to pay me. I _want_ you to have him. I called Brock this morning. He told me a lot. I know you're no pushover, and I know Daikoku won't just fall by the wayside if he's with you. You'll make sure he reaches his potential. _That's_ how you'll repay me." She paused. "And any more tip-offs on Team Rocket, of course. Here, I'll give you my number."

All of a sudden, a hissing filled the room, followed by a snap of lightning. We both jumped, and bore witness to Daikoku in dawning horror, as he rampaged around the room, vines engulfed in sudden flame, braying in panic. It seemed that he'd ventured a tendril towards Pikachu, intending to greet his new comrade, and was sharply rebuffed. An incendiary spark caught hold, and now the covers of the bed were on fire.

The fire alarms went off, militia were called, and I was kicked out. And that was how I spent my first night with the second member of my championship team - wandering Cerulean, looking once again for a seedy motel to call my own.

(=0=)

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry # 1 ( J. #231 ): Bulbasaur._

_Basic Characteristics: Grass-type, poison-type. Quadroped, thick, starchy skin for water and nutrient absorption, consumption/metabolic-based evolution. Omnivore. No natural age limit yet known, postulated from centuries to eon based on rate of dilapidation into venusaur stage. Avg. height 2'04'', avg. weight 15.2 lbs. Green into blue skin pigmentation, flora pigmentation varies by region and diet._

_Description: The first stage of a marvelously adaptable grass pokemon, the bulbasaur is very resilient for it's age. Typically found feeding and planting leech seeds to be consumed later in a given area, they are not quite the wandering pollinators the venusaur are yet, but tend to keep a large territory. As their diet expands, the bulbasaur's body begins to break down and weaponize toxins for self defense and hunting, causing it to excrete very little waste relative to the amount it consumes. In the same vein, the bulbasaur conserves it's bodily resources extremely efficiently, allowing it to go many days without food or drink._

_Nicknames: The Seed Pokemon, waddlebulb, venuseed._

_"...bulbasaur to venusaur, it's all about the diet, you see. Their bodies are hardwired to produce some damn interesting stuff given the right food. But it's not when they're full that you need to worry, oh no. Droughting is what it's called - you stave them off food and drink for a day or two, so when they go into battle, their bodies are already in endurance mode, absorbing everything, using everything way more efficient. Doesn't hurt that the hunger make_  
><em>s them mean, too, of course..."<em>

(=0=)

Dane Dogman : A second-ring Champion trainer famous for using exclusively lupine pokemon. Many think him able to go to the Finals, but Dane repeatedly states that he's uncomfortable facing Koga, given the man's reputation for ending pokemon's careers with his crippling pokevenoms.

The braviary and the liver : While there are traditionalists who keep to the original texts of ancient pre-pokemon myths, others sub in pokemon in the place of animals in order to make the tales more accessible to those without knowledge of pre-pokemon zoology.

Fuschian cuisine : Food from Fuschia, oriental and tasty in the old Imperial style, is notoriously un-filling.

Sinnoan nuns : The nuns of Sinnoh, while alike in official authority to every other religious order in the quasi-theocratic region, are unlike them in having directly engineered three out of the six Champions of Sinnoh directly or indirectly, the current Champion, Cynthia, being a fully sworn mother superior. They are known for their chastity and Xanatos-complexes.


	9. 7: Greed

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Chapter Seven

The Word and the Legend

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"_To greed, all in nature is insufficient."_

-Seneca, famous Roman philosopher

(=0=)|l|i|k|e|n|o|o|n|e|e|v|e|r|w|a|s|(=0=)

"Ah, come on, fuggen...oh please, those haven't been- really? Really?"

He has been called genius, innovator and national treasure. He is a researcher, inventor and post-apocalypse Renaissance man.

What he is not is patient. Irritably, the man, in pajamas and bathrobe clad, hammers away at a series of keyboards and displays, some physical, others hovering in the air in apparitions of harsh light, casting sunken cheekbones in sharp relief. A graveyard of coffee mugs and doodle sheets sit in rows and stacks around him.

"You're really throwing up Morimoto-Ishihara algorithms here. Really. Hahaha. Ha. Okay. Don't blame me when you _get rolled, boom, headshot motherfucker! _Get on my level, porygon sluts."

An interface across the darkened room lights up, and a digitized female voice speaks with measured urgency as a shrill alarm begins ringing throughout the house and conjoined laboratory, causing him to wince. "_Warning, League Headquarters mainframe under attack. Attention all Elhaz-class technicians, man terminals and prepare-"_

The inglorious genius growls and quickly slaps a few buttons on one display, plunging the house into silence once more. "Shut up, shut up, I know. I'm the one breaking in, remember? Honestly, whose idea was it to use elder futhark for personnel designations? Fucking nerds." A dozen new screens of code and numbers pop up in a dizzying half moon, and he grins. "Oh, so the fun police have arrived." He drags one screen of prewritten code and copys it a dozen times before executing. The hacker grins maliciously. "First round's on me, boys. I choose you, CookieMonster."

It's sad, really. He knows all of them personally, and knows any one of them could have been a real threat to him if they put in the time instead of wasting it with stupid things like _social lives _and _sleep_. Instead, here they all are drowning in junk code produced by his virus. And he wrote code as a _hobby_.

The various firewalls and security measures fold before him like wheat before a thresher - as they should, considering he co-wrote almost half of them. Dozens of backdoors and reroutes later, the Pokemon League Headquarters mainframe lays exposed before him like an easy whore, defensive porygons and programmers floundering as they chase after CookieMonster, his own tricked out porygon, currently poking at every top secret file he can find.

Of course, they'll be at it a while. CookieMonster isn't actually designed to hack the top secret files he found, only to give the appearance of doing so, in order to scare the system's porygons and programmers into prioritizing him while he trolls around in their most highly classified directories like a emboar in a turnip field. Whenever they catch and erase him, another copy of his source code activates in a previous file and begins banging pots and pans in another part of the system. It's a hilarious creation.

And meanwhile, he's free to do what he really came here to do, which is...

...what again?

"Fuck. Fuck, where's that note!"

The genius curses and begins rooting through the papers in front of him, knocking coffee cups askew in his search for the forgotten reason he's hacking the second most secure database in the Indigo League - the first, of course, being Oak's, who one of the code monkeys he is running circles around is eventually going to swallow their geek pride and call. At that point, he'll be waist deep in shit if he's still anywhere within seven proxies.

Eventually he finds a familiar coffee stained note, and frowns.

"That's it?" He sits back, scratching his greasy hair, hands momentarily idle. "I mean, yeah, breaking in was fun. But I could have sworn it was for something more interesting." He shrugs, and taps a few keys, relatively few compared to the firestorm it took to get in, dragging a remembered program from one of his folders into one of the League Headquarter security systems. "Sure, I can fool the seismographs for a few hours. Picking on geologists, the gift so nice..."

He trails off, propping his chin on one fist as he tries to string together memories and reason into motive. The HQ seismographs, which protect the government complex and it's extensive below ground wing from roving diglet colonies and other subterranean dangers, flicker for a moment before settling into an appearance of silence. For the next few hours, the Pokemon League Headquarter's underground eyes will be blind.

Not that it matters. The tunnel walls are all reinforced with yards of concrete and Cinnabarean steel rebar. You'd have trouble finding an onyx that could make it through that much ultradense stone and metal, even if it wasn't sensed beforehand.

Curious, he roots around in the security feeds. Everything looks normal, but that's suspicious in itself, cameras turned off angle and blanked over. He retraces his steps and finds the ones outside the Headquarters - someone is visiting that definitely doesn't want to be seen. He's a genius. It doesn't take him long.

"Oh shit." A worm of fear finally crawls up his spine as he watches a low-resolution outside traffic video record something it really shouldn't have. He's finally stepped into territory dangerous enough to ward him off. "Nope. Nope, nope, nope," he mutters, backing all the way out of the system and mainframe like he's being chased by houndooms, fragging every trace of his intrusion. "Didn't see nuttin'. Not a damn thing, sir. Just fucking with the seismologists, ma'am, taking their lunch money, you know how it is. Certainly didn't notice _Giovanni Vittore _sneaking into P.L. HQ a few hours ago..."

He's silent as his brain begins to turn over the new information. It's futile to try and stop himself from wondering; curiosity is half his personality, the other half being stubbornness. A clefairy, pink and impish, wanders up out of the darkness with a fresh cup of brown gold and he takes it absentmindedly.

"It's not that it's Giovanni, or that it's League HQ," he argues with himself, "I mean, his gym is in Viridian and HQ is practically right next door, and it's not like he can't go anywhere he fucking wants. No, it's that those things are true that make it weird. Why is Giovanni fucking Vittore_ sneaking _into HQ?"

Angrily he musses his hair, and throws up his hands.

"Nope! Nope, I'm done. I did my wondering. I _wondered. _Now I am _done. _Seismographs are dummied, job's done. Do I think about what a weird favor it is to fool the sensors on a building that the scariest trainer in the fucking League just happens to be skulking into like a zigzagoon? I do _not. _We're even, Red. I'm out."

(=0=)

The officiator's whistle blew.

"Begin!"

My arm snapped out, casting my pokeball spinning out. In the wilderness, it wasn't typically a smart idea to throw your ball away, but in the circuits, it was actually it's own skill, releasing your pokemon without telegraphing beforehand to your opponent where.

Some gyms had disallowed it in the beginning, citing the unrealness, but it eventually became a League mandated allowance in official matches across all the regions, as it added another element of tactics to the battles. The matches were meant to simulate real encounters, but the League had long since given up denying that it was a sport in most practice outside the major leagues, albeit a blood sport.

The rule passed, balls were designed with delayed release functions, and that was that.

The ball opened, red pokepower bursting forth, and my newly acquired bulbasaur appeared onto the field, doing a quick inventory of his surroundings like the trained pokebattler he was.

The Cerulean Gym, popular as it was, dominated a large swath of city, a connected superstructure containing numerous arenas large and small. Here, the many trainers of the gym, teachers and contracted circuiteers both plied their trade. It was more like a large university than anything else, albeit a heavily athletically focused one.

The arena we were in wasn't the main one, of course - that was the main one, near constantly occupied by Misty. She liked to hold marathons certain days, taking challenger after challenger on in a row without break. It showed off her endurance, and the televised footage of her in a swimsuit didn't hurt ticket sales, or ratings - she had her own television channel.

The battleground set up catered to land and water pokemon equally, featuring an astroturf field split by a river over which multiple crossings were erected. In terms of design, it was simplistic, but that was fine.

My opponent's ball spun, depositing some bulky blue creature into the water before I could identify it. Both balls were helpfully returned to our hands by the mistermime fielding the match, Daikoku oriented himself and the match began in earnest. I quickly ordered him to the center of one of the halves, putting him the farthest distance from any of the water channels.

Grass pokemon like mine were best at defense and offense after a little preparation. After a few terse directions, Daikoku set himself and tensed, sending his body into hypergrowth as vines crept down his back and coiled out, forming a short defensive net around him. His bulb bulged with dangerous powders. Ideally, I'd have ordered him to prepare razor leaves, but Daikoku was only halfway through that feeding regiment, and hadn't quite assimilated that deadly plant into his physiology yet. I'd have to wait if I wanted those infamous spadelike dismembering projectiles which were the favorite of so many trainers.

I wracked my brain for that brief glimpse I've had of the opponent's pokemon. It could be anything out there- and there were several herbivore Water-types which particularly-

"Welcome to the freshwater trainer battle!"

I flailed in surprise as the speakers inside my podium blared briefly with disgusting cheer. I looked across the field to the female gym trainer standing in the other, who waved when she saw me looking, holding a microphone on a zip cord. She was very pretty.

_What. _I thought.

"Pop quiz, the presence of what pokemon indicates water is safe to drink?" She asked, voice reverberating.

I stared. Then I ordered Daikoku to launch poison clusters into the water. As the purple powder spread, true to form, a ponderous quagsire leapt from the water, unable to tolerate the presence of the contagion.

"Good work! That's right, if you see a quagsire in the wild, you can be sure that there's drinkable water nearby."

_Are you fucking serious._

The quagsire charged. "Of course, that doesn't mean they'll be willing to share!"

_Are you fucking serious?_

The Water/Ground-type wasn't quite as oblivious as it seemed. Moment before stepping into Daikoku's vine whip net, his chest bulged, and a blast of water knocked my bulbasaur back, dragging his vines with him. If he could get my pokemon in the water, he'd win this match.

Of course, that didn't mean I'd let him. He might have had the weight advantage, but that just meant it took even more energy to move out of water. I barked a quick order, and Daikoku arched forward, bulb unfolding slightly. He tensed, and expelled several fat leech seeds, which struck the quagsire's literally rubbery hide, sticking to him like insects they were named after, slowly swelling.

He stopped to brush them off before charging again, but the battle was already over. Daikoku juked around him and fired more, sapping more of the quagsire's energy, flagellating him with vine whips anytime he drew near. Eventually the beefy pokemon simply collapsed, puckered with leech seeds slowly draining him and out of water to spit. The trainer recalled him, leaving the leech seeds behind, which Daikoku ambled over to graze, snapping them up in quick bloody bites.

"Nice job!" The trainer enthused. "While it's true being able to move on land gives quagsires an advantage over other Water-types, it's not easy for them. Next battle!"

The rest of the match was relatively straightforward, as I recalled my bulbasaur and sent out Pikachu to face her simipour. Honestly, another quagsire would have been a better choice, given their particular species' tendency to laugh off electricity with their subdermal rubber hide.

The water monkey was hellishly quick, diving in and out of the water and peppering Pikachu with spouts, but that matter was put to rest when Pikachu finally got fed up trying to hit the aquatic simian directly and simply electrocuted him through one of the water guns he was expelling.

It was idiotic, and humiliating to just be a part of. I felt like a professional artist winning an award on a finger-painting. It was a win, but not any I could take pride in. The quagsire alone should have tackled my bulbasaur into the water and ignored the leech seeds, before going on to beat Pikachu into the ground. The strategy my opponent had used wasn't alternative or esoteric, just deliberately stupid.

This wasn't pokebattling, this was my trainer's ego getting a fifteen minute handjob from across the room. Idly, I wondered whether it counted as legalized prostitution, considering she was a gym trainer and drew a government salary paid for by my taxes.

She shook my hand afterwards, white teeth dazzling, the only physical feature I can really remember. Shiny and perfectly kept teeth, impossible for any trainer who spent longer than a month roughing it - the owner of the Safari Zone in Fuschia, a famous retired explorer and expansionist, legendarily had a replacement set made entirely of gold. Each cavity an adventure, he claimed. Not the case nowadays, of course, with walk in clinics and healthcare I took benefit of myself.

But even I had a few cavities. You didn't carry toothpaste or whitening strips when you could carry another repellant bottle, or ration bar. It was the principal of the thing.

"Thanks for the battle!" She chirped. Perfect alabaster teeth. "You've been invited-"

I told her I was busy and left. Her scrunched up frown was sweet enough to rot my teeth.

(=0=)

Of course, I didn't exactly whittle my days away waiting for my appointments with the Gym. With my prize of free lodgings robbed of me by Pikachu's standoffishness, I found myself once more in need of a stopgap to prevent my wallet from draining too quickly.

Foraging was one method I pursued of course. All pokemon captured could be sold, if only for pennies to League long-term storage - better stored and harmless than wild where it could hurt a human, they reasoned. But you wouldn't make a living selling pokemon into cold storage, the payout barely covering the cost of the pokeball.

No. Like it or not, we all lived in a pokemon world, where monsters were power, and where any one pokemon was caught you could be assured that someone would want it.

Trading was one way. As I mentioned before, there was a large market for pokemon of battling weight, constantly shifting. To the uninformed or unskilled, it appeared helplessly chaotic, impossible to win a fortune or even a profit out of. But I was neither. I knew how to play the Game.

In the span of a day, I traded three sandslash for twelve oddish, twelve oddish and 200 idols for a rapidash, a rapidash for a poliwhirl and 700 idols, and finally, a poliwhirl for a jynx.

It was an amazingly lucrative final trade - poliwhirl was nowhere near jynx's market value, and I'd picked up an extra 500 idols along the way trading the rapidash - an idiot trainer with cowboy dreams, or perhaps supremely confident he could break what I had found in a few short minutes to be a unmanageably temperamental rapidash.

But the jynx was the real coup. Uniquely the only Ice/Psychic-type known to exist, it was well valued across both pokebattling and recreational fronts, as well as hard to acquire, showing up only in far reaches, well off the beaten Routes. I won the trade from an old retiree, the jynx being an old Ranger trophy. He wasn't eminently concerned with money, with his decent pension - he merely wanted a poliwhirl for an upcoming fishing competition and didn't feel like pinching pennies over months to get it.

And that was where profit was made. There was no luck. There was only preparation meets opportunity, and recognizing the latter and knowing when to seize it was ninety percent of any great success.

He named her Lola, and I saw no reason fit to change it. While she wasn't trained as a pokebattler, she had plenty of potential to learn the trade. I decided to put her in storage for the time being, throwing up an overly high price for her on the market just in case, since an untrained jynx wouldn't be of much use for the Water or Electric-type gyms. If Lola hadn't sold and I hadn't found a good Grass-type counter by Celadon I'd take her out. In the meanwhile, she'd stay in long term so I could avoid the chances of her being stolen.

Other than trading and foraging, there were always trades to be learned - but those took significant time and material investment to learn, and were something of a sign of retirement - you became a craftsman when it became clear you weren't going to be winning any rings in your lifetime.

To be a pokebattler was to accept living life week by week. You needed money just like every other man, but you couldn't afford to stay too long in any place and risk losing your edge. Ideally, after winning enough badges and acclaim, you'd start making royalties from appearances and fortress contracts, but that was a long, long way off.

No, as a pokebattling trainer starting out, you looked to earn your bread at the high-risk, high-reward tables.

Which is why, much like pokebattling was the biggest sport in the world, gambling was the largest non-subsidized industry.

Why not? History had shown it to be a thrill even in the most primitive times, putting up your future for chance. Celadon Corners and Goldenrod Games, based out of their respective cities, ran the most lucrative industry in the Indigo League not directly overseen by the League itself. Slots, Voltorb Flip, card flip, pachinko - the two giants ran everything, right down to where I currently found myself.

Betting.

You see, the machines are utterly for suckers. They're truly a tax on people bad at mathematics. To win the rare prizes only the casinos offer, you're actually better buying the coins and cashing them in outright.

But down at the human level, betting on competition between recognizably imperfect creatures, that was where reliable money could be made, for those who had the eye.

It was early in the day when I found myself at the Cerulean ponyta circuit. The cape city had a terrific track, running right along the water, which attracted a good crowd any day of the week, especially clear ones like today.

Why ponyta and not rapidash, you might wonder? Well, while rapidash were naturally older and faster, they tended to be much too aggressive, often devolving into fights. While some people enjoyed the violent spectacle of the 'fire-crashes' as they were called, the less unstable and more controllable ponyta circuits drew the more experienced gamblers, and hence, the larger crowds.

I wouldn't normally become involved in this sort of thing, but selling the rapidash in my pokemon trading chain had chanced me a walk through the stables, and an eye at the ponyta. I didn't have a specific knowledge of records or statistics for the racers, but I knew my horseflesh, and had seen an opportunity to make a quick buck.

A Chance Encounter in stall three, the leading prospect for the race, was in perfect health, but had been twitching up a storm, mane flaring up in down. It was his rut coming up. Now, the racers had naturally developed treatments for this, but they'd leave him docile and a tad numb, no conditions to lead a race in. He'd finish well, but not first. That, I was betting, would be Blaine's Last Laugh, the second contender. It wouldn't be a terrific amount of money, but it'd be worth the price of the ticket, and be a suitable waste of an afternoon.

I was just settling down with a box of caramel corn when a familiar roar shook the stadium, causing me to freeze in recognition.

Out of the sky dropped a charizard, swooping down over the wall of the hippodrome to do a low flyby over the audience. People whooped as the shadow of the great beast passed over them, not in fear, but in excitement, stretching hands upwards to feel the updraft. The dragon did one more revolution, blowing flashy streams of fire over the attendees, before cutting across the ponyta line and landing on one of the sky-perches specially designed to accommodate trainers with such mounts who were willing to pay for it.

Right above my fucking head.

I had only myself to blame. Seats so far back cost the least, being the farthest away from the track and right up against the wall of the highest-level, where the wealthy patrons and their mounts sat, and as such was vulnerable to food and (Arceus forbid) droppings from mounts themselves occasionally bombing you. I actually had the row mostly to myself. My cheapskate ways now had the air around me literally rising in temperature from the charizard's sulphurous breath.

My bulbasaur merely poked his head out, ever innocently curious. Pikachu lost his shit, hissing up a storm and crawling under my seat, glaring hostilely out from in-between my legs. I didn't blame him. There weren't enough charizards around for this to possibly be a coincidence.

My suspicions were confirmed a short minute later, as the charizard's head snaked down, admitting a wizened old man holding creakily onto his crest. A few people in rows further up turned around clapped for him as he slid creakily off, prompting a few irritated snorts of flame from the charizard. The people ooed, and I sighed. Stadium barriers and urbanization had robbed people of their sense of danger.

The little old man settled down next to me with the calm disregard for boundaries of the very elderly. "Share some of those jacks, youngster?" He asked, grinning a smile not quite full of teeth.

I stared at him a moment, nonplussed. I glanced up above me, where his giant, murderous dragon was calmly watching our exchange out of one eye. Then I gave my whole bag of snacks to the old man.

I wasn't sure why he was here, but I sure as hell wasn't going to try to make him leave.

The old man blithely ignored the question, munching on my cracker jacks. What was it with people and stealing my food? "I'm not supposed to have these, you know." He whispered conspiratorially. "Doctor says they're bad for my health. Of course, the doctor doesn't own a giant fire-breathing dragon and can suck an egg for all I give a hoot."

Daikoku, ever the intrepid explorer, snaked a few vines over the rim of his pot. The old man blinked blearily and fumbled around briefly, grasping one. "Oh, who's this? Ho ho." The vines curled around his wrinkled thumb and he felt around for a minute until he found the rim of the pot, rubbing one of my bulbasaur's ears with one knuckle.

I realized for the first time that he was completely and utterly blind, eyes white with cataracts. Then I realized that he had presumably flown here in said state. Then I very calmly edged away from the obviously deranged man.

"Yeh, I am blind." The old man barked sharply, suddenly. I jerked in surprise. "Took you long enough to notice, may I say. But that's young people. Acting like they know everything when they can't even see what's in front of their nose." In a milder tone, he continued. "So, who're you betting on?"

Tersely, I asked him exactly who he was, and why he had decided to track me down. It was easy to recognize him now, of course: it was the old man from the Nugget Bridge Challenge, who'd come in the box of the charizard's trainer. But that told me nothing about his intentions, or identity.

The old man scowled, as if I had ruined some great trick. "In my day, we engaged in a bit of polite small talk before getting to the bloody point."

In his day, they likely used apricots as pokeball casings. I let him know as such and he roared with laughter, interrupted by hacking coughs. I had only a rumbling chuff before the charizard's head came snaking down between us. Before I could even begin to deal with that surprise, the old man swatted it angrily across the nostrils. "Get offa me, you great dumb lizard!"

Instead of being snapped up in a single, dusty swallow, the dragon retreated. My respect for the man went up several notches. No one got away with treating a Dragon-type like that without good reason. This old man, not the trainer who had wielded him in the Challenge, had to be the real owner of the charizard.

The old man's face grew wistful. "Aye. Me grandson. Too much pride to get along with ol' Alexander, too little sense not to let things be. But it's not his fault. It's his father, me son-in-law what set that fire in him. Never made champion and now the boy feels it's his duty to see it done. He was Alexander's real trainer; I just brought him up through the younger years. Training a drake ain't the work of one generation, you know."

Knowing the old man wouldn't leave, and curious in spite of myself, I asked after the father. The old man's jaw set stubbornly, and I got the sudden feeling of having trodden on something I ought not have.

"Dead. Took his own life." The senior grunted. "Daft, selfish bastard. Went and challenged Koga, and Koga shamed him. Took his whole team and damn near Alexander with him. Didn't quite get out unscathed, though." As he said so, the old man tapped his right eye and pointed up.

I looked, and noticed the charizard too was indeed missing an eye, a faded, blotchy scar barely discernable. It was one thing to hear of Koga's crippling power, but another to see it's work done. Any pokevenom deadly enough to scar through a dragon's regenerative powers was nothing to be trifled with. The old man continued.

"Wouldn't even hear of starting over, or settling into the family business. Daft, daft fool. His ambitions were big, but the grander the dream, the more terrible the ruin. Didn't even realize why he lost. You know why?" Obligingly, I asked, and the old man leaned in. "Koga didn't fight his dragon. Koga fought _him_."

"Me stupid son-in-law's team could have beaten Koga. _Would_ have beaten Koga, with Alexander to sweep them up after the rest of them duked it out. So he riled him up. Poked him in his weak spots, played some mind games, and sent out his supposed ace. What could me fool son do but answer with his own? But all warfare is based on deception. Alexander tired himself taking that one out at full strength, thinking the rest would be easy pickings, and Koga rolled another right out."

"My son's team may have been the stronger, but Koga mastered him, and so made his enemy's strength his own. If your opponent knows what you're going to do before you do, you've already lost. Koga outplayed him, and my son knew it, and it killed him. Who'd you bet on?"

I told him my bet, and my reasoning on it, and I will swear up and down he could see me for the look he sent me.

"What an odd boy, to understand monsters better than men. But I you didn't stand out I wouldn't have been able to find you. I'm bettin' you're wrong, and yours is losing right about now." It was, now that I noticed. The old man grinned. "No Gods But Men is in the lead, innit? I sensed the strength of the rider's bond flying over the field. Same way I found you, in fact. You burn with a remarkable aura. One day, you'll possess the sense, I wager." The old man nodded sagely, radiating wisdom like a thermal heater.

I'll admit, I was taken in for a moment by his words. Then I informed him that he was absolutely full of shit, and snatched my box of snacks back. The charizard, Alexander, rumbled above me in warning.

The old man cracked a grin. "Oh? Don't believe in the trainer sense?"

That wasn't it. The trainer sense was a documented, if unexplained thing: just like trainers with steady teams eventually came to communicate with them as if they shared a common language, the trainer sense, or monster eye, or a dozen other names, was merely the progression of such. Veteran trainers and breeders bonded more quickly with pokemon, and had a preternatural sense for their surroundings and interactions with others. Some even reported feeling their pokemon's emotions, such as pain, sorrow, anger, over distances. It was only one of many aspects of pokemon that science had trouble explaining.

So, it wasn't unreasonable to think that the old man, obviously someone who had worked with pokemon long enough to develop such a strong trust with such prickly pokemon as charizards, might develop the trainer sense, and that the loss of his sight, which was known to enhance other physical senses, might augment his trainer sense in some way. Mr. Fuji, the highest authority on Ghost-types besides Agatha, had made similar claims before.

It _was_, however, ridiculous to think that the old man might pick out anything on the back a moving dragon, or somehow manage to track me over the length of a city with it. It wasn't some psychic thing : that much was known for certain. Also, No Gods But Men was currently in seventh, with A Chance Encounter leading, as expected.

The old man swore virulently and tore up his betting ticket as the ponyta and his rider crossed the finish line, quickly announced over the hippodrome speakers to the great jubilation of some and obvious disappointment of others. "You've caught me out, boyo." He admitted glumly. "After the incident at the Challenge, I asked a few friends in city records to keep an eye out for you. Your trainer record had some kinder block on it, but you charged the ticket on trainer credit, which is classified and monitored separate. I zipped on over once I heard. Alexander's an independent contract for Cerulean and has a roost reserved here."

I chanced another look up at the charizard, suitably impressed. Independent contracts with cities were reserved for pokemon of great worth to the city's defense. To gain such a contract and hold it even after losing an eye was a testament to his power and skill. I wondered if any pokemon in that Challenge might have left in one piece had Alexander been under proper control.

"I actually came to apologize for on me grandson's behalf for the bad sportsmanship shown. Yer starter might well have been killed, and I recognize that." The old man fished around in his coat, and retrieved a pokeball. "In my time, among dragon breeders, we offered the first of the brood for such slights. This is Alexander's last, I'm afraid : it was to go to my grandson, but he's more than proven himself undeserving of such responsibility."

I froze up. I'd never be able to train the charmander in time for the Championship, of course - Dragon-types took decades to reach maturity. But dragons of any age were prized above all on the trading market, especially at such formative ages as charmander. If I were to sell it, I might not need the Ainu Clan to pay for my next few gyms. Any of them, in fact.

But then I turned the thought over in my mind.

No matter how I reasoned it, I couldn't take the charmander. Maybe it was that it went so far beyond charity that I might as well take the old man's name along with it. Maybe it was that I didn't believe the old man be taxed for the wrongs of his kin.

Most, I thought, it was the companionship I felt with the grandson, even though I'd never met him, having now learned his backstory. Maybe I didn't want his one chance to have been his only chance. After all, his ambitions were paltry next to mine, and he had been slapped down. Some part of me didn't want to damn my lesser parallel.

I told the old dragoneer such and he nodded glumly. "I suspected as much. It wasn't all blitzle puckey, what I said, you know. We fogeys of the profession can tell for someone, when we get this close, or at least get a sense: tell the resolute from the cringing. There's plenty of skilled youngsters this generation, it seems, but even in comparison you're frightfully controlled, all dense and drawn in. It's as impressive as it is tragic - no one burns as hard or as short as one like you for any homely dream. Yours must be a terrible desideratum."

I didn't bother responding to his unspoken question. My dream wasn't exactly one you bandied about. After an awkward silence, the older man rose stiffly.

"Well, I suppose I'll do as you said. See if the boy can't make something of himself. Who knows? Maybe he'll be ready for Alexander by the time I pass." The dragon snaked down his head, and the old man paused to rub the drake behind his crest. He looked sad. "Moltres, I certainly hope so. Otherwise, he'll just fly off. It's their way, you see. Dragons won't obey someone who's dreams can't fill their wings, it's just not in their nature. If you don't have that, they'll find someone who does. The dragon rage." He chuffed a little laugh. "These League fools think it's an attack. Ha! No. As the dragon lives, it rages, and you know why?"

No.

"Because we walk an earth amongst living gods," He answered softly. "And they cannot bear to exist in a world where they are not sovereign of their own souls."

I found myself staring at the cavernous scar that dominated Alexander's head, a long, spotty rent in otherwise unblemished orange scales, crossing his eye socket. His ragged eyelid opened, and I jerked slightly to find the socket occupied rather than empty. A gold prosthetic was exposed, engraved in which were Imperial characters I recognized.

_Seifukusha, _it read. Conqueror.

Alexander tilted his head to look and my eyes fell before I could meet his. The old man mounted his dragon and left.

(=0=)

My 'freshwater' battle with Misty came after three more days. Despite my skepticism, I dutifully honed both my pokemon and my mind to the task - Pikachu and Daikoku I set to battle, foraging through the wilds and picking up mock-battles along the Cerulean cape shore, a popular hangout for trainers.

When I finally showed up to the battle, I was impressed. Not by the coliseum, fully three sizes larger than the one in Pewter, or the accompanying size of the crowd, cheers and jeers near drowning out the announcer. No, I was impressed by Misty herself.

The Gym Leaders were any city's pride. They'd been described as anything from military deterrents (by separatists) to living sacraments (by nationalists). No matter whether you liked or hated the Leader in particular, each and every one wielded power that could not be denied or belittled.

Misty's setup was a testament to that fact. She didn't schedule battles - she scheduled battle _marathons_. I was only one in a list of trainers facing her today growing near into the triple digits. She battled for hours, often not even switching pokemon.

All of this I knew already. But as I stood in the trainer podium as it rose into the coliseum, sunlight blasting me straight in the eyes, I was impressed.

After all, it wasn't every 'living sacrament' that could wear a one-piece so well.

I squinted atop the tower as I ascended from beneath the stadium, scoping out the battleground to assure myself it was the same as advertised.

A large disc of land dominated the center of the battlefield, ringed by alternating rivers and rings of more land, connected by bridges to the main disc. It was a battlefield which allowed for both land and Water-types.

A rainbow barrier sparkled briefly in a dome over the battlefield as a matter of rote, allowing both trainers to see the airspace allowed to Flying-types by the psychic barrier.

"UP NOW is TRAINER RED, here for his FIRST of THREE! Some of you might RECOGNIZE HIM from his STUNNING UPSET at PEWTER GYM not too long ago!"

The announcer boomed, and I sighed. I suppose it was too much to hope that I might pass by unmentioned. I wondered if the brief swell in cheering was real or imagined, and then decided it didn't matter.

My attention snapped back to the present as Misty flourished in the far distance, sending a pokeball spinning into the air. I nudged Pikachu off my shoulder, and he leapt down to the battlefield, darting towards center field as the opposing pokemon appeared in a flash of crimson light.

Furtively, I glared at the coalescing monster, searching for the clue that would alert me to it's identity, that one detail that would give me even a moment's-

"It LOOKS like MISTY has sent out her CROCONAW, McCLUSKY!"

Or there was that. I grit my teeth as a standard profile of the pokemon came up next to Misty's massive headshot on the scoreboard, listing battle stats and history, which the announcer started into with great gusto.

"VETERAN fans will note McCLUSKY as being SIRED by REYNOLDS, Misty's CHAMPION FERALIGATR-"

I tuned him out and barked a few orders into the small audio receiver on my podium, which relayed them via speaker inside the psychic barrier of the battlefield. It blocked outside sound as a matter of necessity - in a stadium this big with this many fans, orders would never reach the pokemon through all the background noise. This also served to prevent trainers from hearing eachother's orders.

The croconaw appeared - a great, scaly blue lizard with great jaws and was immediately peppered with lightning by Pikachu. It moved with surprising agility, recovering quickly from the opening salvo with a snarl and slipping into the water.

My pulse quickened. Like most professional battling pokemon, it had obviously been trained to resist it's counters - much like the charizard, being at a type disadvantage was nothing new or frightening to it.

I spoke into the receiver, and Pikachu jinked into motion, darting back into the outward rings just as the croconaw erupted out of the water into the space he'd just vacated. I breathed a quick sigh of relief. The feraligatr line lost speed as it evolved, but found a strikingly good balance of dexterity and power at croconaw age. True, they'd never be the Water-type powerhouse that feraligatrs were, but a feraligatr wasn't going to catch Pikachu even if it had the whole day to do it. Meanwhile, the croconaw could still lash out with surprising swiftness in or out of water while retaining enough bulk to weather a few assaults.

Pikachu juked backwards, cheeks crackling with retribution, but the croconaw was back into the water like a flash. I realized with quick clarity that it had started moving before Pikachu was even done dodging, and that it's real objective had not been to score a hit, but to drive Pikachu off the central platform, the largest and safest portion of land.

Frantically, I called into the arena, and Pikachu shot into motion - away from the central platform and the water that separated it, where I knew the croconaw would be waiting.

Seeing it's ruse revealed, the croconaw burst from the water in another ring, aiming a bulbous jet of water at Pikachu; large, rather than precise, designed to knock Pikachu into the water. The match would be over then. I would be forced to call a forfeit or pit my starter against a carnivorous monster in it's most natural environment.

Pikachu dodged, and fired back, but the croconaw had already slipped back into the water. Pikachu continued running, darting from strip to strip, and I cursed.

This was bad. Misty had the momentum. If Pikachu slowed down, he was prey to McClusky's water blasts and jaws. If he kept running he'd simply tire himself out, never managing to pinpoint the croconaw, as the constant motion made it a near impossible shot.

The croconaw emerged again, letting loose another salvo. It caught the end of Pikachu's tail, and my breath caught, but Pikachu merely hissed (from the looks of it, I couldn't actually hear him from here), and returned, once again missing.

I narrowed my eyes, noticing a pattern in the croconaw's positioning. Misty had given it a good strategy, but hadn't bothered to modify it's base instincts. Patterns were routines, and routines could be exploited.

I ordered Pikachu to rush the center. My rat turned on a dime and began a mad rush towards land, like a yellow flash. Then I issued my next order, and waited.

A shadow moved in the water. I roared into the mic, and Pikachu reacted.

The water behind my starter erupted as the croconaw emerged in a flash of teeth and fury, just in time to take a bolt of lightning to the midsection, already traveling to his position. The croconaw was blasted back onto land, and Pikachu landed nimbly onto land.

I smiled thinly. A predator always struck from the blind spot. Too bad this wasn't the wilds. Too bad Pikachu was no mean prey.

The croconaw recovered quickly, rolling over and letting loose a unsettling reptile cough, pain and anger intermixed. Pikachu braced, gathering charge to strike. This time, he wouldn't miss.

Without warning, a blaring horn rang out, prompting a brief surge in cheers. I blinked, thrown off, and looked up at the mega-screen, where it read CHALLENGE COMPLETE in large flashing letters next to the three other options under my name, those being VICTORY, FORFEIT and DEFEAT. Looking down at the battleground found the croconaw, McClusky, already dissolving into red pokepower, returning to the hand of the distant swimsuited figure.

Slowly, understanding dawned on me, and I called Pikachu back with a bitter scowl.

'Challenge complete'. Not 'forfeit', though I had her creature dead to rights. No matter what, Misty's image would be protected.

(=0=)

"So, who's dirty little secret are you?" Misty asked conversationally, plopping down in front of me. Eloquently, I choked on my hamburger and was forced to pound my chest as I attempted to avoid suffocation.

I was sitting in one of the Cerulean Gym dining halls. After spending nearly an hour stewing in the long line of trainers waiting to confirm their losses or wins, I'd realized that angsting over the insincerity of the system was hungry work and remembered that the Gym offered discounts to battling trainers.

Pikachu, perched atop my backpack and napping at the nape of my neck, hissed at the sudden disturbance. I sucked in a few deep breaths, and recentered myself.

Misty was decent at least, wearing a logo-blanketed sweat jacket and pants over her usual attire, her chin propped up by her fist as she awaited her answer. Around us, the usual business of the cafeteria was interrupted by several suited men positioned rather conspicuously in a circular formation around the building. A staryu floated lazily in the air around her. I spotted a Water Stone strapped tightly to one of it's tentacles and understood - it was evolving, just now coming into the psychic powers that allowed it the status of a pseudo land-dwelling Water-type. Idly, I wondered if it shared any relation to her immortal championship starmie.

Nearby, people tried and failed to pretend that they weren't trying to eavesdrop, surreptitious glances hitting me like a relentless volley of intrusion. I sighed. At least there weren't any tv cameras.

"Those? Psh." Misty waved a hand, taking a swig out of a sports bottle. "Can't exactly talk business in front of those. Also, you're deflecting, but that's fine. I was just curious." She smiled brightly.

I wasn't quite sure what she was talking about. Pikachu, awake now, was watching the staryu, and let off a growl, waking Daikoku, who was eating in his flowerpot underneath my chair. I flicked Pikachu in the nose and kicked the pot; both subsided. I didn't particularly feel like getting dog-piled by machokes in the middle of lunch.

"Well, you!" Misty made a lackadaisical motion that managed to indicate me, my person and my entire character. "Let me tell you, my managers are in a fucking tizzy trying to figure out you. Since little Oak skunked me in his third match yesterday they've been tearing up the stratosphere trying to figure out who's behind him."

That got my attention. Blue was here, and already through his gym battles? Go figure.

Misty nodded. "Mhm. I did a special three-in-a-row for him, no waiting, for the crazy ratings, right? The plan was to let him go crazy in the first two, big slugfests, and then I get him in the third, so we both get some screentime, right? Even ran it through with his agent. So, we get to the third match, I pop Gaslight-" Her champion golduck, I recalled. "-and what does he do?" She threw up her hands.

"He one-ups me and throws out a ninetales! A _ninetales_! Fucking _no-one_ has ninetales, they're impossible to get. I know _one_ person with a ninetales, and that's Blaine, and he's been in the Game _forever_." Misty stole one of my fries, and I struggled not to clench my fists. "Needless to say, the fox wrecks Gaslight with all it's mysterious ghost shit, and embarasses me in front of the whole coliseum. With a Fire-type! I'll be cleaning up that embarrassment for weeks." The Gym Leader let out an explosive blast of a sigh. "Asshole. So that's why I came to check you out. I mean, you're obviously running a double con."

Confusion filled me. What?

Misty smirked. "The lone trainer with no name who wanders into town, dazzles everyone with skill, and walks into the sunset? This is the real world, not a neo-spaghetti western. I should know, I've starred in a few." She put up a placating hand. "Now, I'm not saying you're just some sock-puppet, but we both know old man Oak doesn't indigo-classify just anyone. You're somebody's plan. I've been in the business long enough to know that. You're about as off-color for the standard fare as those eyes of yours."

Well, didn't she just have it all figured out. The words slipped out and I immediately regretted them, but she just chuckled ruefully, swirling around her sports bottle.

"Poking a little too hard, am I? No worries, no worries. You must be one of _those_. You don't like me, do you?" Misty observed, phrasing it like some tragedy. "We both realize that the way I do things isn't glamorous, but let's look at the numbers. Not mine, though those are pretty nice, as the tabloids will attest. Let's look at Cerulean City." Misty's smile grew mischievous and smug, at odds with the topic she was laying out. "Since I was chosen as Gym Leader, the tourism industry and traffic has exploded. Now, maybe you're not interested in the wild parties or tacky knick-knacks or the sights - I know I'm not. What you might be interested in is the thousands of jobs that have been created to deal with that demand. The millions of idols that have been brought in. Now, I'm not gonna pretend I do this for the people: I fucking _don't_."

Misty's smile grew into a dark, wicked thing then: an R-rated rickshaw of dark pleasure and schadenfreude. "I _love_ the life my job's bought me. What's more important in the post-apocalypse but fame and fortune? But honor, you protest, but integrity. Psh." The lewd expression disappeared, and she leaned back, bored now. "Those don't feed families or house them, Red. Can I call you that? I feel like we understand each other pretty well."

I was silent. The hedonist's words flew around me in a haze of confliction.

This was not what I had expected to deal with when I had ordered a burger and a shake.

Sensing my indecision, she leaned forward again, now back in her starting position, chin on fist, examining me like one would an exhibit. "Let me ask you this, then: am I the only person who would have ever done this? Am I the only Gym Leader ever appointed who would..._sunk_, if you wanna call it that, to this level? Moralize all you want. If I'm a bitch, I'm the one you know. If what I do is bad, it's the lesser evil."

We were both silent for a time. Misty had given me a lot to think about and she seemed a bit put out by my non-reaction.

"Well, that's my schtick." She said finally. "I actually came down to tell you that you'll be getting exactly what you wanted. See, my managers wanted me to roll out the gold-engraved pokeballs and thrash you into the ground. But I figure that's kind of a dick move and will garner more attention to my loss yesterday than it detracts. So instead, because I'm the boss, I moved both of your matches up into this week. I won't pull any funny shit, and as soon as you've got your badge, you can mosey right on out of my city."

"Come to think of it, in fact..." Misty dug around in her pocket and produced a pin, which she walked over and affixed to my hat. I took my hat off to look at it. It read 'LEVELED BATTLER' in red letters. "You might like this too." She drawled. "A couple other big cheeses have the same problems with me that you do, so they've cooked up these. That pin basically restates that our matchup is dishonorable and baloney and whatever and that I'm fighting at your level and not mine." She unzipped her jacket some, and I saw an identical pin stuck to the strap of her leotard. "I think they're actually trying to shame me. Silly them, right?"

Misty walked off, her evolving staryu trailing behind. One of her bodyguards said something into his wrist and the whole cadre moved to mirror her. The Gym Leader stopped by one table to sign autographs and then left.

I looked at my hat. Then I put it back on my head.

(=0=)

Two days later, I received an email from Professor Oak asking me to check up on a colleague of his, who apparently hadn't contacted him in a few days.

I'd just finished with the second gym battle, my 'saltwater' battle. The entire battle is mostly a blur to me even now - I recall solely that I never met Misty's eyes even as I 'won', and that it was otherwise unmemorable.

I was still in a haze over what Misty had said. I'd always had trouble reconciling my conflicting philosophies - idealism vs. pragmatism, what I dreamed weighed against what was possible in this world.

I had thought myself already resigned to dirtying myself at some point in my climb to the top - perhaps not so soon, but greater trainers had sunk to much lower depths in their scrambles toward heaven. Despite my raging against compromise, the poor boy inside me had already known that compromise was vital to survival, never mind victory. It had to happen sooner or later.

I had imagined it in the form of some commercial contract or deal - I would need money at some point, after all, and minor indignities were preferrable to failure, little deaths to stave off total annihilation. I was naive, and I realized that now.

Yet still I balked. Misty's offer tasted so strongly of charity, of pity-giving, that I nearly gagged. But what was I to do but accept? Misty was egomaniac with cause - her record of pokebattling was undeniable, and she could crush me as simply as deciding to with her suite of elite pokemon. Her way was the only way - there was no highway option

These thoughts consumed me as approached the small coastal studio Oak's address had led me to. I knew little concrete about the cost of Cerulean real estate, but common sense told me the dazzling view of the sapphire Cerulean bay alone must have driven the price into the millions. It didn't surprise me, however - any peer of Professor Oak was bound to be extremely successful, and with such windfall came lucrative gains.

I knocked on the door, which opened slightly. Not thinking much of the way Pikachu perked up and hissed into the gap (as it was his common reaction to most things new), I shifted Daikoku's pot in my arms and shouldered my way inside; the Professor had said it might be unlocked.

Now, I'd love to say my inner turmoil had my normally stoic bearing a little looser than usual.

"Fucking finally." The clefairy said, taking a long drag from its cigarette and smashing it into the ashtray next to it as it leapt down from the stepping stool it had been sitting on.

But, well.

Daikoku's pot slipped from numb fingers, smashing thunderously on the doormat, depositing my squealing bulbasaur onto the floor. Pikachu screeched and took off into the house like a shot. Daikoku, meanwhile, rolled awkwardly off his side and fixed me with an utterly wounded look.

"I understand this is not a normal situation for you." The clefairy bit off in clipped tones. "It's _fine_, don't worry about it. All I need is a human actuator with Indigo-level clearance who can keep his mouth shut and pull the pretty levers. Preferrably before the cigs I've been chain-smoking wear off, and the clefairy's regenerative hyperamnesia the poison was supressing blank-slates the collection of neurosises I call my personality, thereby destroying the nationally-proclaimed 'greatest mind born since the Neo-Dark Ages'. But _please_, let's wait for _you_ to calm down. My name's Bill, what's yours?"

My mind was blank. This situation could not possibly be reacted to, so I did not react. I stared at the sarcastic impossibility in front of me with wide, disbelieving eyes.

The clefairy palmed it's face in a human gesture that looked so very wrong on it. "Welp, there goes my emergency supply of patience for idiots. Thankfully, even dumb animals can respond to stimuli."

With that, the clefairy's voice rose to screaming, ultradecibal pitch. "_MOVE, TRAINER_!"

I jumped a near foot in the air as the sound of breaking windows filled the house. Somewhere else, I heard Pikachu howl, and the sound of lightning followed. The clefairy charged me, and I retreated on instinct, scrambling away from the mad creature.

"_MOVE! MOVE! DOWN TO THE FUCKING LABORATORY_!"

My eardrums stung in pain, and I fled down the halls of the domicile, flayed by the sound of it - Bill's - voice, as he chased me down the stairs, passing messy rooms filled with files and computers.

A sliding glass security door stood destroyed at the bottom of the circular stairwell. Blood and broken glass littered the floor like the scene of a murder. Pursued by Bill the clefairy, I leaped over the steel divider and into the laboratory. Peripherally, I noticed its lavish and expensive equipment, even more extensive than anything I'd seen on the Professor's ranch. This wasn't a million idol cutting-edge laboratory - this was a billion idol _bleeding-edge_ facility.

All for one man, currently trapped foaming mouthed in a glass-tube at the end of the bay. I stopped short, transfixed by the sight of the Indigo League's greatest genius, clawing bloody-fingered at the walls of his prison like a asylum patient. Behind the toothy insanity, I could almost glimpse the weedy, humorously caustic inventor who occasionally called in to tv shows to offer his crude, backhanded insights.

The clefairy's impossibly human voice rose in a snap behind me. "The computer. Quickly."

I leapt away like a man burned, but the clefairy was already passing me, stepping into a parallel glass tube to the human Bill's. My mouth gaped open like a fish, mind struggling to catch up with the absurdity.

"TRAINER ID! IN THE COMPUTER!"

My trainer's instincts reacted, choosing action over stillness, clawing my identification card out of my pocket and into the slot on the side of the computer, an ordinary government laptop which dominated the laboratory atop a podium at it's center, standing out like a conductor's stand.

Bill the clefairy pounded a button on the inside of the tube and it hissed shut. "SIGN IN, KILL THE SECURITY NOTIFICATION AND INITIALIZE THE PROCESS!" He screamed, voice muffled by the glass.

Out of some miracle I logged in, pulling my hardly used governmental PIN out of some panicked corner of my brain. A security warning for new users popped up immediately and I clicked the red X.

The desktop was cluttered with folders, some numeric, others a gibberish collection of letters, all locked. In the background, a younger Lorelei lounged in little more than a smile, no doubt from her modeling days before she became the Absolute Zero Empress.

A tiny window opened on the center screen. _BEGIN OPERATION MONSTER MINDFUCK WHAMMY JAMMY AND REVOLUTIONIZE GODDAMN POKESCIENCE AS WE KNOW IT, AGAIN? YES/NO?_

_YES_, I clicked, and both Bills began to scream.

At this point I'm not ashamed to say that the sudden onset of insanity caught up to me all at once, and I turned around and slumped down against the podium, covering my ears and clenching my eyes shut. It was too much, too fast. This was what Oak called a errand?

After a while, a hand found it's way to my shoulder. Cautiously, I opened my eyes.

Daikoku had created a protective circle around me of vines and leech seeds while I was catatonic, meandering around it in a worried circle as he bleated cries of distress I hadn't heard. I found my right hand curled in Pikachu's fur, who had entered the circle and curled up by my side.

Bill looked down at me with tired, blood-streaked eyes, cradling a cigarette in his other. "Fancy a drink, trainer?" He croaked.

Pikachu hissed at him.

"Clefairy." He retorted, in much the same tone as one would use to tell someone to fuck off.

And strangely enough, Pikachu did.

(=o=)

We sat in Bill's kitchenette, small despite the size of the house. I guessed from the state of the rest of the house that he wasn't interested in much besides innovation - containing rooms filled with cardboard boxes of folders, machines and other research tools, discarded and seemingly forgotten. Even his bed was only a mattress and blanket, tucked behind a row of spectrometers and glass slides.

I watched the clefairy with a wary caution as it approached the table, a cup of coffee clutched in its tiny hands. Bill took it, and the clefairy waddled off to purposes unknown. The super-genius waved at its back.

"Don't worry about it. Regenerative hyperamnesia, like I said. It doesn't even remember me being in it's brain - clefairies forget fucking everything except basic functions just to protect their minds." Bill snorted. "Psychic savants, able to reproduce almost any natural phenomena they witness, and what stops them from ruling the world? They can't fucking remember what they did. Even clefables aren't much better."

I nodded mutely, still digesting what I'd seen. Bill glanced at me, before shrugging and going on. I'm sure he was used to lacking a mental peer capable of bouncing his ideas back at him.

"Anyway, thanks for the save. I asked Oak to send a cleared runner over to check on business just in case things went wrong, and it looks like I was right. Just like always." He gulped down a swallow of caffeinated gold and sighed. "Still, you did me a solid, so I guess I owe you one."

Silence ensued. I thought of the thousand things I could ask of the premiere mind in pokescience and decided I wanted none of them. I didn't crave trivia or technology. What I wanted was an answer to my philosophical turmoil, the root of which I couldn't even discern.

I wanted the badge, the win, the next gym and the next battle, and Misty had offered me it. My goal was not here, but at the top, with Blue. I had no practical choice but to accept, so there was no reason to feel guilty for doing so. The outcome was obvious, and yet, I was haunted by something I could not define.

Bill's eyes widened as he listened, and by the end, he was staring at me like I was the most interesting exhibit in a museum. "You know you're like a hundred years too fucking young and _late_ to be tackling the root of the human condition, right? Philosophers have argued around your problem since before we put monsters into balls." He sounded delighted. "Mew. Oak does like his Platonics and dreamers, doesn't he."

Sighing, Bill took out a cigarette and rose from his seat, rummaging around in his cabinets for a lighter

"I'll spare you the armchair sophistry and backseat rationalizations and tell you what motivates me. I'm an inventor, Red. That is my purpose. I've heard pokebattlers say they fight because it's the only time they feel alive."

At this I nodded - while I did not share the same mentality, there were times when I revelled in a similar understanding.

"Well, that's what innovation is like for me. The way I see it, if you're not working to advance the human understanding of what is and may be, then you're basically just a decomposing sack of fucking meat, yanno?" Bill shrugged, as if he hadn't just called every non-PhD holder in the history of mankind worthless. "I'm really not trying to be melodramatic here, but everyone who's born gets one fucking thing, and that's a lifetime. If your life's only contribution is another provider, another family unit, some menial service and easygoing life which preserves the status quo of our species, which is really not that special, by the way, then aren't you just a brick in the wall barring our way?"

Bill finally found his lighter, and lit up, shadows catching his face harshly for a moment as he cupped his hands. Even bloodshot, his eyes were sharp, and he fixed me with a penetrating gaze as he spoking, filling every word with purpose.

"Nothing in nature evolves without hardship. I could have retired after inventing the storage system. But I didn't. Because then all I would be is a sack of decomposing meat. When I'm eating, sleeping, or crapping, I could be any ordinary asshole doing that. But when I'm inventing, when I'm struck by my next inspiration - that's when I'm Bill. Because no one, _no one_, does what I do as well as I do it. I don't want the inventions I make. I want to invent them."

After a moment of staring, he broke out coughing, having held his drag in too long. His coughing broke into smoky laughter, and he waved his cigarette.

"And these damned things? Let's just call it living life on hard mode." He shuffled to a drawer and began rummaging around in some papers. "Enough fucking proseltyzing. You be you, Red. Or a sack of decomposing meat."

The inventor pushed an envelope into my hands and shooed me towards the door. "Do me a favor and take this. I guess I'll owe you another one!" He said as I left. I did not reply, lost in thought.

(=0=)

The crowd was massive as I stepped into my box, Pikachu weaving around my legs to clamber up my back. Their murmurings had turned to cheering the moment my heel had hit the first step. It was a sunny day.

"COMING to you LIVE from CERULEAN GYM STADIUM ONE, we are here with the FINAL BATTLE in TRAINER RED'S gym series..."

I fiddled with my hat as I waited. Despite my intentions, I felt oddly calm. Pikachu's mood mirrored mine, watching docilely from over my shoulder despite the noise.

"GYM LEADER MISTY has TAKEN THE STAND!"

In the far distance I could see her, doffing her sweat jacket and standing bare before the Indigo League, flesh glistening with sunscreen and body oil.

Narcissism failed to describe her. Egomaniacism was barely in the right neighborhood.

There wasn't an ounce of shame or doubt in her. I wondered if there ever had been. Misty was beautiful, by a standard she enforced on every person who looked upon her. There was no choice. She _was_ beautiful. The lenses zoomed, and Misty waved to her fans, a bubblegum smile on her face.

Misty glanced across the field towards me, and the shot caught it. Her blank, pliant smile loomed over me from the screen, void of true emotion.

Our ID photos blinked onto the stadium screens. In the six bubbles below our names, three pokeballs rolled animatronically into their places on my side, two on hers, both cherry red.

Obligingly, I unclipped the LEVELED BATTLER pin from my hat and held it clearly forward. The cameras zoomed in.

"You can SEE HERE as TRAINER RED once again presents his badge that this will be a LEVELED BATT-"

And with a quick heave, I chucked it out over the stadium.

The cameraman, whoever they were, was skilled. They followed it perfectly as it flipped end over end, landing on one of the floating platforms; I'd aimed decently. The sound of the stadium became jumbled with confused noise.

Then Pikachu's thunderbolt caught up with it, toasting it to a crisp in front of everyone present physically or otherwise.

In the space of seconds, the massive dome went completely silent for a single moment.

Then, somewhere in the stand, a dragon roared, and Stadium One exploded into an uproar. The announcers voice excitedly over the din, seemingly breathless, megaphone turned to near defeaning levels.

"IT SEEMS THAT TRAINER RED HAS ISSUED A CHALLENGE TO OUR GYM LEADER! THE QUESTION REMAINS, HOWEVER-"

The chaos barely registered to me. I had eyes only for my enemy, whose painted expression stood frozen in the massive screens, eyebrows risen in an expression of mild surprise.

Then, Misty's lips curled upwards. It was not a nice smile. She looked downwards and began fiddling with her control pad.

_"-WILL SHE RESPOND!?"_

She had expected this. She might even had planned for this. Either way, it didn't change my course of action -

- because I had come here to Cerulean Gym to take a badge. Not be given one. That was the truth I had realized.

The screens blinked a warning as they began to shift. The two red pokeballs on Misty's side flipped over on themselves and disappeared.

Then, a single golden pokeball rolled in and locked in place.

The noise before had been a whisper compared to this. You couldn't hear a thing in the stadium now, not even the announcer on max volume. People who had paid standard fare for their seats now stood, screaming in the stands at their fortune.

Golden pokeball. A champion pokemon - a monster at the pinnacle of their existence, almost never revealed outside the Championship, which the average Indigo tax-payer received only one free ticket to in their lifetime.

I couldn't control myself. My mouth curled slightly. This was my truth. It was just as Bill had said.

A pokemon battler, fighting the longest odds. That was who Trainer Red was.

And in that moment, at that place - I was alive.

(=0=)

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry #35 (J. # 41): Clefairy_

_Basic Characteristics: Normal-type, psychic abilities, second form evolution. Pink fur, small claws for omnivorous consumption, black tufted ears. Avg. height 2'00", avg. weight 16.5 lbs (small sample group due to status as protected species)_

_Description: An incredibly mysterious pokemon capable of seemingly anything. For a long period, it seemed that the feats a clefairy could perform were limitless, taken for evidence of the existence of actual magic as was claimed by many superstitions. However, non-invasive observation using measuring instruments revealed that the large range of phenomena the clefairy could produce actually originated from hyper-fine Psychic manipulation on the molecular level. Clefairy are a protected species under the ACPA (Ainu Clan Preservation Act) and forbidden for capture except under Indigo-level supervision._

_Nickname(s): The Fairy Pokemon, moonfae, the Dancers-in-the-Mountain._

_"...it's notable that clefairies are not actually Psychic pokemon until they decide to be. They possess what can only be described as a fluid-state brain structure, the only unchanging parts being those governing basic subsistence and very limited memory. However, the moment something catches the clefairy's interest, the entire neural lace restructures itself for the maximum pursuit of that goal. That is what allots them their savant-like focus. Even explained, however, it's not surprising that the things the clefairy can do are often mistaken for miracles..."_

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Contracted circuiteers: Pokebattlers who have signed contracts with agents to battle in gym and battle circuits. A term of classification which encompasses many professions, from the battle instructor who prepares pokebattlers to fight, to the fourth to first ring champion who trains all year keeping their badges and team current to participate in the Championships.

Deadly Plant: Bulbasaurs and their evolutions accumulate defense mechanisms based on the food available in their environment. 'Razor leaves' develop from consuming the shoots and leaves of a rather dangerous plant which grows in wilderness outside the Routes in Johto.

Fortress contract: In the interest of maintaining a reliable force of defenders in the case of emergency, cities and settlements will often pay trainers, or more specifically their pokemon, to stay in their city instead of wandering around as they are wont to do. This is a rare thing, reserved to pokemon of extreme strength or utility. An example of this are the trainers who contract their electrodes to the Cerulean Power Plant.

Championship starmie: All the pokemon of a gym leader's championship team are well-known, but Misty's starmie is of particular infamy for being singularly responsible for the resignation of one of the previous Elite Four.

**AUTHORS NOTE: **Sorry for the wait. I joined the Air Force. Can't promise updates will be sooner - if anything I have less time than before - but at least now I can tell you that I'm not updating _for freedom._


	10. 8: Character Assassination

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Chapter 8

Character Assassination

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_"...besiege Wei to rescue Zhao. Kill with a borrowed sword...make a sound in the east, then strike in the west...openly repair the gallery roads, but sneak through the passage of Chencang...remove the firewood from under the pot...replace the beams with rotten timbers...chain strategems..." -strategems 2, 3, 6, 8, 19, 25 and 35 of the Dark Age tactician, Wang Jingze._

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The operation is scheduled to take no more than one hundred and twenty seconds.

Two blocks away from the target in a suburban neighborhood, in the darkness between two houses, the night _convulses_ before expelling two operatives, clad in head to toe in dark fatigues, even their faces obscured by masks. Dark heavy-repeaters, tethered by straps, hang from their hands.

Both of their microphones cough once in their ears, and without further prompting, both of them release a single pokemon; an exploud and a banette.

The exploud's pipelike crest begins vibrating subtly, emitting a potent white-noise, muffling the sound of their movement.

The banette, formerly some sort of bear doll, unzips, beginning to leak thick, pungent smoke from every rip and tear in its abused, abandoned frame. The haze will smell different to any given person - garbage, spoilt milk. Whatever that particular victim finds gag-inducing. The two operatives bear it without comment.

The smoke's secondary function - and primary purpose - will be to shield them from the psychic sweepers who patrol this settlement, clouding out their individual signatures with it's unique brand of spitefulness and hate. Any extrasensory pokemon will likely mistake their presence for an argument taking place in a typical suburban marriage, or an overturned wastebin.

One of the operatives makes a curt hand signal, and they bolt forward, crossing the street in a dark blur, moving from cover to cover.

At ninety-three seconds, they hear a growlithe start barking, and freeze, taking cover behind the eaves of a porch. Listening for five seconds more, the exploud begins moving again, and the rest follow his suit, leaving the hound to grow dim in the distance. Delays like this had been accounted for.

At eighty seconds, they reach their target. All four halt, and the two humans survey the house to verify, the pre-op brief having long since been committed to memory.

Two stories. Recently finished construction on upper level. Low-income neighborhood. One of them slip on a pair of goggles, tabbing them to infrared. Two heat signatures - one in bed, human, one bustling around kitchen, humanoid.

There is no trace of fire in the fireplace. Good. That would have been a complication.

With a muted flash, they release another pokemon. A belabored weezing comes into being, whimpering with overstuffedness.

"Quiet." One of the operatives hisses - male - and the pokemon's whimpering dies down to muffled sniffling at the command of its master.

Following its orders given prior to their arrival, the weezing floats upwards slowly, churning its gases into a helium dominant mixture, until it arrives at the chimney. It _churnes_ again, changing the helium into a heavier gas before dropping like a wet sack onto the openings.

One of the older shingles rattles and slides loose, clattering noisily down the roof until it lands soundlessly on the grass.

"I still say we should have gone with my plan and strapped it to it." The other operative, female this time, comments petulantly.

The male chuckles softly. "Be nice."

At twenty five seconds, the weezing has emptied itself of its payload, laying flat on the chimney like a deflated tire. The master rises from his prone position briefly to recall it with his pokeball.

The female operative scans the house again. The target in bed is motionless. The pokemon in the kitchen shows no deviation in behavior. But then, it has no olfactory sense.

"Call it in." She orders tersely.

The male operative smirks behind his mask, and thumbs his mic. He _loves_ calling it in.

"Outlaw Actual, this is Outlaw-1, how copy?"

The mic hisses, a cool, female voice answering. _"Good copy. Verify; motto, first line."_

At nine seconds, he pouts slightly. "Not the whole thing?"

Silence is his answer.

"Fine. _Prepare for trouble._"

At seven seconds, an absol appears, twisting its way out of the darkness the same way that had brought them here. They recall the exploud and banette, and the female operative tosses a small object onto the back porch of the house.

At five seconds, she slaps the absol's hindquarters twice, and with a voided twist, they are gone.

Three seconds passes in silence. Then the sparkplug activates, igniting the massive quantity of gas that has been pumped into the house.

In a massive gout of flame and destruction, 10 Natochenny Lane in Pallet Town disappears.

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I could feel the beating of my own heart, so still was I, the subtle pounding sending my torso rocking to and fro. Stillness, and blood. That is what I remember of it.

I would tell what I remembered of the crowd, but my world had narrowed to three things - myself, my enemy and the field between us.

There was no crowd.

Misty's monster appeared in a jagged slash of lurid light, resolving into a fell star that rose above the battlefield.

"THERE'S NO MISTAKING IT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE POKEMON YOU ALL HOPED BEYOND HOPE TO SEE!"

A ruby light bathed the battlefield as the starmie flourished, spinning suspended on nothing in the air, psychic gem alight.

"THE LEGEND! THE KINGSBANE! _AION_, THE IMMORTAL!"

There was a considerable din after that. Aion's rise to fame was still a popular story, even several years later.

It would be easy to brush it off. The championship pokemon didn't look so impressive - it was neither large, nor bore any especially distinguishing marks or scars. Maroon purple and average sized, it had stopped stock still in midair.

But that would be the most dangerous thing to do. Aion's power wasn't in what was shown, but what was revealed in the course of fighting him.

No, best to remember, and take heed. All of this pokemon's titles had come from deeds, not words.

With a snap, I released Daikoku. Understandably, there was little fanfare after the act he had been forced to follow. I settled in to wait.

"BEGIN!"

Without a second's delay, the screen zoomed in onto Misty's face. She'd probably coordinated this on the side.

Then again, it wouldn't take a prophet to see this coming. Sending out Aion alone, with no other pokemon in her pool - it was a mirror of that infamous match that had brought a member of the Elite Four to ruin, so it was only good sense-

Misty smiled indulgently, anticipating her fans' desires, and held up her hands for silence, completely ignoring me.

I allowed it, giving no orders to my pokemon.

The stadium dropped to a hush.

Slowly, her smile twisted into a smirk, and she spoke the words that had won the position she owned, magnified ten thousand times by the speakers.

_"After you, trainer."_

The Gym exploded in noise. If you asked any Indigoan the count the most famous words spoken in living memory, Misty's quip would probably appear in the first ten, if not five answers.

It wasn't Giovanni the Tenth's resignation speech by any means, but it had its own memorability in absurdity.

After all, what pokebattler who cared about their victory would ever even _consider_ giving the opponent the first blow?

I paid no mind to the slight. My eyes were riveted to the prize I sought. I barked an order, and Daikoku wobbled to the water's edge.

"AND WE'RE OFF! IT SEEMS that TRAINER RED seems more RECEPTIVE of THIS ONE of LEADER MISTY'S offers..."

The crowd laughed.

And why not? As far as they were concerned, they were watching an execution.

Roots dangling over the rim of Daikoku's bulb dipped into the water, with a surge, he began to soak up the water with almost desperate fervor, the roots actually bulging with the force of the absorption.

My bulbasaur's thirst wasn't a typical one. I'd dehydrated Daikoku over the course of the last few days, bringing him to dangerous but manageable levels. It would have been irresponsible if I hadn't already known there'd be an abundance of water in his next battle.

Misty, massive pixelated face overflowing with bemusement, snapped her fingers.

A thirty second timer appeared, superimposed over her face, much to the delight of the crowd. No explanation was needed. My eyes narrowed.

More than enough time.

I spoke a terse word, and Daikoku _exploded_.

Green vines erupted from beneath the pokemon's bulb, creeping limpet along the ground of his platform like an invisible carpet had been unfolded. Then, another layer joined it. And another. I smirked, catching a burst of the commentator, who had recognized his tactic.

"-is UTILIZING a TRAINING TECHNIQUE known as WATER DOPING-"

Hypergrowth.

By dehydrating Daikoku for several days, I'd forced his metabolism into overdrive, his internal ecosystem learning the hard way how to make do with less. Now, with so much water introduced to so efficient a system, his body was now growing at several times its normal rate.

Growing, and _moving_.

I didn't have to point. I just roared.

The mass of viney whips leapt up from the ground, seizing up Aion by his purple crests. The champion pokemon didn't respond or even try to dodge. The vines curled, crushing his tentacles in cruel, twisting grips, and with a mighty heave, _spiked_ the legendary starmie into the ground.

The crowd gasped, but we weren't done. Again and again, Daikoku slammed the enemy pokemon into the platform. I glanced at the timer.

Twelve seconds.

With a short command, Daikoku racked Aion before him, vines pulling at every tentacle, like a child pulling on the legs of a spider.

Then, my newest addition braced himself, as great, _rigid_ leaves unfolded from the underside of his bulb.

"A CLEVER RUSE REVEALED by TRAINER RED! The RAZOR LEAVES leave NO DOUBT! What a SHOCKING turn of EVENTS!"

I stared Misty down across the length, allowing the ramifications to sink in for a full moment.

My first trap was sprung. Since the beginning of the match, there'd never been a bulbasaur on the field.

Daikoku had been an ivysaur for two days.

Normally, the spots on his skin and coloration of his bulb would have given him away, but so newly turned, his bulb was still mostly green, and it was amazing what a little swamp scum and dirt could do to paint a hide.

Ruthlessly, and without pause to let her contemplate, the razor leaves were let loose, striking with no mercy.

The crowd screamed as their immortal star dropped to earth, divested of its limbs.

But I didn't let up. Daikoku pressed forward, vines crawling hungrily over the fallen form of Aion, the red glow of his jewel being swallowed under the mass of crushing tendrils.

I grit my teeth. These were the critical moments. In these last four seconds, if I could just...

Three. Two.

The timer flashed _00:00_ once, and faded, leaving only Misty's face filling the titanic screen.

She arched one perfectly-waxed, tangerine eyebrow and grinned.

"My turn." She said. And then...

The Cerulean Gym exploded in crimson light.

The vines were blown back by massive kinetic force, as Aion rose, like a phoenix from the ashes, out of the entanglement Daikoku had trapped him in.

The starmie was a mess. Blood leaking from stumps, meat squeezed and insides scrambled from the binding.

But all that damage was unimportant. Because the crown was intact. The psychic ruby glowed, and I watched with wonder and horror as time was rewritten.

Muscle and sinew grew as if pulled from some hidden reserve. Skin stretched as if pulled from some endless, macabre bolt of cloth, pulling itself over the newly formed tentacles and meeting neatly at the ends. Ichor dripped and psychic energy resonated as the regenerating pokemon undid the brutal gauntlet of damage inflicted upon it in the course of seconds. And all the while, the red crown jewel burned with a cold, mad light.

And then, it was over. With a dismissive effort of will, the bodily fluids left on the outside of Aion's body were flicked away, and the champion rose again into the air.

He stopped in the exact position he had started, and waited for his master's commands. As if nothing had ever changed. As if nothing could ever change.

Unchanging. Eternal. That was Aion the Immortal.

Bathed in the terrible illumination of his jewel, I felt a worm of fear settle deep into my gut.

Aion's counterattack began.

His jewel pulsed once, and a ray of force, imperceptible except for a slight discoloration, lanced out, crushing the edges of Daikoku's web of vines into a viridian pulp.

I reacted immediately, ordering my ivysaur to do so as well. Move.

Daikoku lurched away, frantically fleeing across the sparse platforms of land the Gym provided.

The starmie pursued at a measured pace, strafing my pokemon with blasts of psychic energy. Each time a beam connected, Daikoku would be jerked to a halt, forced to tear himself free of the pinned vines, a process that couldn't be comfortable for the plant-pokemon.

A child pulling the wings off of flies. This was sadistic.

I forced my jumpy nerves down and swallowed, issuing an order.

With a twist, Daikoku angled his razor leaves sharply downwards, the net of vines being severed with a pained bray. At this point, all they had been doing was weigh him down.

Then, the ivysaur twisted, sending a salvo of razor leaves spinning up at the airborne starmie.

"OH! It LOOKS like RED'S DAIKOKU still has some FIGHT left in him-!"

Aion blasted all but one of the leaves out of the air with pinpoint accuracy. As the last razor sharp projectile approached, he juked slightly left and donwards, tentacles parting the minimum amount necessary for the leaf to pass through the gap.

"-for ALL THE GOOD it DOES HIM!"

The crowd gasped and laughed, and I pounded the console furiously with one fist.

This pokemon was toying with us.

Allowing the anger to show on my face, I schooled my inner thoughts to stillness. This was fine too. The longer he prolonged this, the better.

Time was our ally, not his.

I ordered Daikoku to continue his retreat. My pokemon obliged, bounding off around the edges of the stadium, fleeing the maroon star at his back.

Misty, who'd assumed a relaxed position at her console, chin on the heel of her palm, spoke a few words into her microphone.

_"Who's up for a game?"_

The crowd's cheering increased slightly as they attempted to respond. My eyes were only on Aion, who, at the sound of his trainer's voice, had suddenly zoomed across the coliseum back to her side, now floating just above her podium. Warily, I waited, unable to discern her intentions.

_"I like to call it-"_

Squinting one eye shut, she made a finger-pistol, which she carefully aimed at Daikoku, a speck to her across the field.

In response, Aion's jewel glowed brighter.

My eyes widened, and I snapped into my microphone.

_"Water Gun! BANG!"_

When she had begun speaking, a pillar of psychic light hit the water below her podium, funneling it upwards against the pull of gravity and crushing it into a high pressure ball which belied the volume contained within, a circular well floating suspended in midair beside her immortal champion. Now, at her command, Aion released it.

At Daikoku.

The water traveled faster and more compressed than it had any right to. Daikoku, forewarned by me, leapt frantically out of the way of the jet of ultradense water.

It hit the platform at his feet. When the froth cleared, a hole had been uprooted, an inch or two deep.

In _concrete_.

_That...bitch._

Wordless with horror, I stared at Misty. She grinned cutely and 'recocked' her pistol.

_Bitch!_

"BANG! BANG BANG BANG-!"

Dodge! It was the only thing I could tell him. Daikoku, terrified as I was, scrambled into motion as Misty unleashed the element of her Gym in a deadly fashion.

As my pokemon struggled not to be drilled through by bolts of water, I ruthlessly squashed my nervousness. There had to be an edge to find here. Something to use.

I scrutinized Aion, blasting away in his role as Misty's 'Water Gun', searching for any sign of faltering or weakness. Nothing.

_Still!?_ The pokemon, despite the damage it had taken and power it was flinging about, still looked as fresh as it had come in.

There were no advantages to be found on the field - it was a very simple design, land platforms and rings of both fresh and saltwater divided by platforms. I wouldn't be pulling my victory off the environment.

Which left Misty. Who was currently busy trying to blast my pokemon like a 8-bit enemy in an arcade game.

Misty was shooting my pokemon. Misty.

Like a trigger slamming, neurons fired and synapses connected. An idea. But Daikoku was out of the range I needed.

I gave an order.

Charge.

For an aching moment, he seemed to hesitate. A blast of water exploded at his feet.

All at once, I realized how absurd it sounded. Charge this clearly superior enemy? At the orders of this trainer, who he'd barely even known for a week?

One aching moment, where doubt overcame me, and I wondered if the fragile bonds I had formed with this ivysaur, now mine, had been stretched beyond their limits.

The doubt spread like a toxin. Should he trust me? Was I making the right decision? Had throwing Daikoku into this unfair battle placed him straight on the path to ruin, all in the name of my own ego?

I remembered the charizard's mocking epithet.

_Conqueror_.

Time rushed back as a wave. I blinked, and the moment was gone.

Looking, I felt my trepidation dissipate.

Daikoku hadn't hesitated - it'd merely taken a moment for him to adjust directions. Now he was charging, heading straight at Misty, narrowly ducking aqua lances that would do more than break skin.

The weakness had been mine, and mine alone. I almost chuckled and gave the whole act away. If there was a doubtful bone in the ivysaur's body I would be surprised.

All this time, and he'd been the calm one, the strong one, not me. From Green, I'd inherited a better pokemon than I deserved.

A painful squeal brought me out of my reverie. The audience gasped with ten thousand mouths.

Disaster had struck.

Daikoku was hit.

Misty had nailed him in the right foreleg - I knew instantly from the looks of it, high-tech cameras zoomed all the way into it, that Daikoku would be moving no further.

Misty had 'holstered' her pistol upright, clearing the 'smoking barrel' with a cutesy little blow. In that split-second, I gauged the distance remaining.

Too far? Just on the edge?

Irrelevant. I gave my order.

Daikoku, concentrating through the pain, collapsed his other foreleg, angling his bulb forward.

It wasn't a question. Timing and aim would have to be perfect or it wouldn't work, so it would be, because there was no other option.

On my command, Daikoku's bulb bulged and undulated once, ejecting a dark blur at high speeds. At first glance, the arc seemed far too low to hit Aion.

That first glance would be right. It was aimed at Misty, not him.

The dark blur separated and dispersed in midair, resolving into clarity - several dozen hard-shelled seedlets, half the size of a fist, heading straight for the leader of the Cerulean Gym.

A seed bomb. In the wild, it was used to redisperse seeded fruits into the wild. In terms of combat usage, getting hit by walnuts traveling nearly one hundred miles per hour wasn't debilitating, but certainly wasn't easily shrugged off.

But in this setting, and this arena, I'd found it's third usage.

The seeds, now a wide net in the air, struck the psychic barrier in front of Misty's podium almost as one. Each one struck and fell nearly straight down, robbed of their momentum by the barrier - a measure put in to avoid perfect ricochet shots that wouldn't be present in nature.

Each seed's momentum was translated into heat, which dispersed itself as a small multicolored ripple, over roughly a second.

Dozens of seeds, all at the same time. Dozens of multicolored ripples, all over the front of Misty's podium.

For about a second and a half - the extra half accounting for the seeds that had moved slightly faster or slower in the cluster bomb - Misty was blind in her own Gym.

More than enough time for the razor leaves sent behind it to hit. The immortal starmie jerked, concentration broken as it was riddled with the sharp, rigid fauna, and for the second time, like a shot Flying-Type, Aion was sent plummeting to earth.

The crowd reacted in shock, gasps and disbelief. Most of them had expected him to simply dodge again, or blast them out of the air like he had before.

I suppressed a knowing smile.

It'd started when I noticed Aion's blasts of water going to where Misty pointed with perfect accuracy; unerring, for a creature at an entirely different angle and elevation.

That's when I realized what I had. That Misty's 'Water Gun' was truly that - hers. Aion had psychically slaved his visual senses to Misty's, so that the Gym Leader would be aiming with only her own eyes.

Meaning that blindness for one, meant blindness for both.

Aion impacted the ground with a wet thud, the well he had been using for the Water Gun falling down on top of him in a splatter of liquids.

"A SURPRISE BLOW by TRAINER RED! He's certainly HANGING ON longer than-"

Misty, view now cleared, saw this with perfect clarity. I saw her face ripple with surprise briefly, before her face twisted through anger into coolness. She made a sharp gesture, and Aion's jewel flared to life.

The meaning was clear. The time for games was over.

With mounting dread, I watch Aion rise swiftly back into the air, razor leaves plucking themselves out of his skin.

_Can truly nothing-?_

And then, at long last, my second trap was sprung, as Aion jerked abruptly in his ascent, spasming slightly

It was a slight motion, but I recognized it all the same, having searched desperately for it since the near beginning of the match.

I took out Daikoku's pokeball and manipulated my console.

"TRAINER RED has signaled a RECALL!"

Triggering the ball's return mechanism, the stadium barrier opened up slightly as I called my ivysaur back. _Good work._ I bid him wordlessly.

He'd played his part to perfection.

"It seems...it SEEMS as though SOMETHING is WRONG with AION!"

The announcer had noticed it too, now. Aion was twitching in midair, unable to stop the involuntary motions of his body.

Or rather, what was _inside_ his body.

I gave no quarter. Daikoku came back, and I sent out my ace.

"TRAINER RED has sent out his PIKACHU!"

I banged the console twice, and my starter leapt up and out into the stadium. There was a slightly upsurge in stadium volume. Pikachu was the member of my team of any renown, though that was some renown at that. They expected a show.

I'd give them a _show_.

Pikachu landed, on the outermost ring, and lit up like a yellow flash, cheeks crackling with errant light. He was fully topped off and raring to go.

I looked across the way to Misty, who was scowling unattractively and muttering nonstop into what was no doubt a feed to her strategists.

I tabbed my mic, and Pikachu fired, letting off a test shot.

Aion's gem flared, and the bolt of electricity splashed and dissipated against a translucent barrier that bubbled outwards from the starmie's crown. It hung in place - Misty would get to the bottom of her star pokemon's dysfunction.

A ghoulish smirk tugged at my lips. That was fine.

At this point, that kind of expenditure of energy would only _accelerate_ it.

It didn't take long for the answer to present itself.

_Bloodily._

Amidst shrieks of disgust and shock, the immortal's skin bulged and tore open as hard, shiny growths forced their way out of its body in several places, each pulsating rhythmically as they took their parasitic penance of the starmie's power.

It was a grotesque sight. Each wound widened as the invaders grew slightly larger, and Aion shook every time they pulsed. Even the announcer, no doubt a veteran of the sport, seemed hesitant.

"THOSE look like...LEECH SEEDS?"

Leech seeds.

Planted in that very first thirty seconds that Daikoku had struck, right on Aion's crown. Being fed every second he invoked his psychic power - which was constantly, with him levitating - and gorged even more as he used his gem's power to regenerate and attack.

How much extra had it cost for each psybeam? For each regeneration? With how many seeds had been planted...twice as much? More?

I smirked and leaned forward on the console, feeling something give briefly, staring across at my enemy.

_Maybe you should be more careful about who you let inside you._

The volume of the stadium skyrocketed suddenly, fans and audience hooting and hollering, and I blinked, unsure of of the cause - nothing had changed on the field. Then I looked down and found my thumb pressing a switch labeled _TRAINER MIC/STADIUM MIC_ firmly onto the _STADIUM MIC_ side.

Then I realized I had spoken out loud. I winced and looked up, seeing Misty's face across the giant screen, features now tight with fury. Gingerly, I flipped my mic switch back.

Well, there went diplomacy.

_"Aion."_ Her voice echoed icily. _"Re-rack."_

And Aion exploded in meaty chunks.

An even greater uproar arose at that, but I saw past it.

The starmie's crest remained floating, along with the tatters of its body. It had simultaneously divested itself of every leech seed infecting, by removing the organic components the seeds had grown their roots into, smashing its body with its own psionics to make a new start. Such a method would likely even work for poisons.

Well, most poisons.

Now Aion's body was regenerating once more, reforming. All the while, his jewel was burning red.

But the ruby light no longer filled me with dread. Now, it held my hopes. As out of nearly nothing, Aion came again, I watched...and watched...

...and watched it flicker, once.

So fast, it might have never happened.

My heart leapt, I keyed my mic twice, and Pikachu attacked.

In a blur of gold he dashed forward. Aion, fully reformed, shattered his shield, crown jewel glowing.

The fight was more even now, despite Misty's change in attitude.

Aion's blasts were faster now, but his opponent was faster too. Human eyes couldn't perceive as well the spectrum of light psychic attacks typically operated on, but Pikachu's eyes had no problem, as he juked and dodged, his way through the maze of attacks the immortal built...

...and returned fire, letting loose a salvo of lightning bolts the starmie was forced to respond to, raising his shield once more. My pokemon wasn't tossing leaves anymore. There'd be no artful dodging of _thunder_.

It was a slugfest, the kind the masses loved. Especially the announcer.

"-Pikachu DODGES RIGHT, ROLLS UNDER AND BLASTS BACK! One bolt INTERCEPTS A PSYBEAM! AION just CAN'T PIN THIS RAT DOWN!" I chuckled, despite the situation. "MAKE NO MISTAKE, ladies and gentlemen - THIS CHALLENGER is NOT GOING DOWN WITHOUT - what's this?"

I focused my attention on the field, Aion had projected a pillar into the water-

I hit my mic. Dodge.

Instantly, Pikachu put on a burst of speed. A second later, a massive geyser of water erupted in the place he had been.

_Sly. He's manipulating the water from beneath._ Pikachu would have to watch his feet, and I told him so.

But my attention wasn't focused fully on my own pokemon. My gaze was riveted to Aion's jewel.

_Give me another one. Just a little one. They should be coming faster now._

Flicker.

I smiled wolfishly, and keyed my mic.

Obliging, Pikachu redoubled his attack.

"AION is OPENING UP THE ICEBOX! THIS is a BRUTAL-"

With his psychic powers, Aion pulled the heat from his well of water, instantly crystallizing it into shards nearly as long as my starter at Pikachu. They exploded as they hit the platform around him, peppering him with fragments.

In response, Pikachu snarled, before letting off a bolt so mighty it splashed over Aion's barrier and into the stadium barrier itself.

"THIS PIKACHU does NOT LIKE THE COLD!"

Flicker.

Aion forced the surf onto the platforms and began blasting them with heat-stealing icebeams, turning everywhere he touched into a slick surface. In my mind, I noted that given enough time, he'd turn the entire landmass of the coliseum into difficult terrain.

The starmie formed another flurry of icicles-

-and Pikachu turned his trick back on him, blasting them into shards before he could launch them.

"-a TASTE of HIS OWN MEDICINE-"

Flicker. Flicker.

There was no mistaking it. Now, all that was needed was...

A feint. I keyed my mic three times.

Pikachu stopped running, and let loose the storm.

A barrage of thunderbolts assaulted the starmie, forcing him to bring up his shield to avoid getting blasted. Unlike the shots traded before, these were one after another, sometimes two or three at a time.

"-looks like PIKACHU is GOING ALL OUT!"

Pikachu continued peppering his opponent with bolts as I kept my eyes on the prize.

Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.

That burning light, telling me to seize victory.

I keyed my mic, four times.

Pikachu's bolts started slowing. Getting weaker. And-

"-this RAT is OUT OF JUICE!"

-then there were no more bolts.

Aion's retaliation was swift. All his previous attacks began forming at once - the waters of the stadium began churning, ice formed in the air, his gem blazed brighter and...

...blinked.

There was no missing it, even more the most oblivious of observers. The realization was slow, but spread like wildfire as the immortal star's light began blinking in steady flashes.

Anyone who'd read up on starmies - which was now likely more than half the coliseums on their phones - knew what the blinked. It was just too unbelievable to say out loud.

"It-...IT SEEMS as though AION the IMMORTAL-"

Unless, of course, it was your job.

"-is...near THE END OF HIS ROPE!?" The last part was nearly yelled despite the sound equipment, a result of the announcer's disbelief.

One couldn't blame him. No one had ever seen Aion, whose well of psychic power had destroyed the bell curve for his species, go into his biological distress stage. Mainly, because none had ever managed to push him that far. Even if all that was left of him was his crest alone he'd managed to regenerate over and over with no sign of tiring.

Until now. The dying light did not lie.

_Unlike me._ I keyed my mic three times.

In a cacophony of screeching light, Pikachu's cheeks lit up once more as he began charging power for his attack. As his lightning began building, the golden light of my starter began overtaking Aion's flashing red that had dominated the Gym for so long, as the starmie fell back to Misty's side of the arena.

Feeling churlish, I flicked to _STADIUM MIC_.

This crowd wanted to see _all out_?

The audience roared their agreement-

-and were slowly drowned out. By a horn.

I looked up at the screens, and the two words written across them.

On her screen, _FORFEIT_.

On my screen, _VICTORY_.

I closed my eyes and let the cheering roll over me. Victory indeed.

(=0=)

She had to have her say, of course.

Misty met me at the intersection of the press exits. The series of tunnels snaked underground throughout the entire stadium complex, letting out at dozens of different points; an effort to at least reduce the media exposure the trainer received if they so wished, as well as a secure way from coliseum to coliseum in the case of emergency or such.

In the forms I'd filled out prior to the match, I'd expressed a desire to have the badge express mailed to my lodgings rather than receive it by hand. But I suppose Misty was Gym Leader and did what she wanted.

Including ignoring the purpose of the tunnels, I noted, judging from the photographers. Zipping up my red pokebattling shirt I made a pocket, which Pikachu readily crawled into to escape the flashbulbs.

Misty was beaming beauteously as she took my hand and shook it, pressing the Cascade Badge into the palm of my hand.

"Great work!" She enthused brightly. "I don't know what had Aion feeling so under the weather, but it was good luck for you, I guess!"

I said nothing in response, smirking as I allowed the handshake to peter on into awkwardness. Misty's facial expression, too well-trained to let anything slip in front of the paparazzi, didn't change, but I did feel her flounder for a moment.

"...Good job!" She finished lamely, pulling me in.

I let her. What could she do now?

I'm sure it looked like a pat on the back in the news, but a lot can be said in a few pats. Or rather, hissed in one's ear.

"I _do_ know you just made an enemy of the biggest _bitch_ in Kanto."

I'm sure her expression didn't even change as she said it. The edges of my newly won badge bit into my palm as she squeezed it painfully tight.

"Count the days, _Red_. The acceptance letter to my shit list will arrive in the mail sooner than you can _believe_."

The biggest bitch in Kanto? Maybe if we were only counting everywhere north of Saffron and east of Celadon. Misty was just a particular loud magikarp, who thought herself a gyrados because she'd managed to swim upstream a ways.

As for the rest, that threat had been old when the Ainu Clan tried it.

I told her as much, before we separated. Feeling a bit ostentatious, I curled the inside of my shirt outwards for the cameras as I pinned the Cascade Badge on, right next to the Boulder Badge I had won less than a month prior.

One of the cameramen almost jostled her as they surged past her to capture the moment. I actually laughed out loud as I made my way down the tunnel in a random direction.

I pulled out my pokedex and emailed Blue.

Two down.

(=0=)

Misty wasn't kidding about her ire being known sooner than later.

I didn't know much about the tunnels other than their purpose, but I did know that it took more than a lucky guess for every major news outlet in Cerulean to congregate at the same exit.

I wondered for a moment if there was a rule against tipping off the press, before irritably discarding the notion. Misty would never get hit for this.

Bitch.

The lights and microphones surged forward as soon as I stepped into the light, and the world around me devolved into a chaotic, writhing horde of blazers and shouted questions.

"-first in the-!"

-nection to Gary O-!?"

"-chu originated fr-!?"

"-where do you-!?"

With a start, I realized I hadn't arranged to transportation afterwards. For a horrid moment, I was treated to a waking nightmare of myself having to walk all the way back to my room at the motel on the other side of town, every step hounded by a pack of houndours carrying microphones in their teeth.

Salvation came in the form of a loud voice, whose familiarity pierced through the clamorous haze of twenty-four hour journalism.

"Yo, _champ-in-the-making_! Need a lift?"

It was Richie, the reporter from Viridian and Pewter. Another time, I might have questioned what he was doing here - first, so conveniently, and second, so far away from his outlet headquarters -

-but when drowning, one seizes upon all floatation, without hesitation.

It was a difficult slog to push my way through the mass of flesh and curiosity, but eventually I managed to make it to Richie's van and slam the door closed.

The stubbled reporter twisted around in his seat, grinning. I noticed his partner, fiddling around with a pad in his lap. "Where ya staying, kid?"

After about a minute of driving, he spoke up again.

"Do you mind if we go on the record? Can't say it wasn't what I was here for, but I can promise I've got better questions than those jackals."

Having had a minute to calm down, I suppressed a smile. I should have known. I had thought he was after Blue's story, though.

Richie grimaced. "Nothing for it. Oak's got people, now - managed to get some old money clan behind him. Now, I write anything he doesn't like, my ass is _grass_. I'll tell my boss to pet a sandslash any day of the week, but I don't mess with Imperial comm directors. Mean as sneasels and twice as bloodthirsty."

I deliberated a moment, running my fingers slowly through Pikachu's fur - I'd let him out in the back seat, where we were now curled up.

Ultimately, I couldn't see the harm. Richie had done me a favor, and it couldn't hurt to control speculation at least a little bit. It went a long way that he'd been honest and polite about it.

"All right...first question. And the only really important one, I think."

Richie kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. I noticed his partner attaching a keyboard to his pad, fingers poised to type.

"During the Elite Four match which made him famous, Aion must have regenerated from fucking scratch a dozen times, and if you uprooted the entire Saffron Gym and rolled it down a hill like a golem, you'd have less psionics in motion than he threw in that famous match - _therefore_, you are higher than the fucking Rayquaza if you think I'm gonna believe you tired out Aion the Immortal with a slapfight and a few leech seeds. How did you _really_ beat Aion?"

Like a bidoof's dam bursting, all of the emotions I had been holding in during the match came rushing out.

The third trap.

I began to laugh. The uncertainty, the dread at Daikoku's injury, the trepidation waiting for my first two traps to take effect, that had been real, certainly. But the rest?

All of it, an act. I'd won that match in the first thirty seconds.

To understand how I won, it was first necessary to discard all notions of 'immortality'. Aion could heal, yes, but others could do that.

What made him different was that he could do it over and over again, while duking it out on a championship level, with no sign of stress. The common belief which granted him his moniker was that there was no way of stopping him bar destroying his crown jewel, since you weren't going to win a test of endurance.

So I looked into that. It wasn't impossible, certainly - starmie crests weren't indestructible by any means. So I looked for archived matches where it had sustained damage.

Only, there weren't any. Whenever a match came up with any pokemon who had the potential - Titan-classes, heavy psychics and the such, Misty simply used others, saving her flagship pokemon for shock and awe matches (which was, additionally, how I'd known for almost certain who'd she'd sent to 'shame' me).

In other words, the list of Aion's weaknesses was written in the matches Misty kept him out of. And in that unwritten list I found another answer, one I hadn't considered despite it slapping me in the face.

Poison. Specifically, the Fuschian-strain complex poketoxin _Oda's Ire_. It required Violet-level clearance to purchase, but then, Professor Oak had issued me Indigo-level, which was two levels above that, an advantage I had already decided to exploit.

Poketoxins weren't like simple poisons. Toxic and extremely adaptive, they invaded the body like a living thing, turning it against itself, using the enemy's own power against it. The longer it remained, the more deadly it got.

It was a testament to Aion's monstrosity that he'd gone more than two minutes without a single ill effect, and would, if I had to bet, survive with no last adversity. The only constitution I could compare his to were _snorlaxes_, which in this case was not hyperbole.

Richie, who'd been silently listening the entire time. "You're telling me your ivysaur who just evolved can already digest and secrete Fuschian poketoxin feed?"

I was silent for a moment.

Unlike the feeding regiment for other attacks, poison feed was dangerous, and poketoxins doubly so - if your pokemon's constitution was of insufficient caliber, it would become infected, sicken and shortly thereafter die. In truth, I had held the same concerns Richie did. It was another reason I'd gone with the water doping strategy - the explosion in his metabolism had rushed the gang-loaded toxin through his system and into his leech seeds, eliminating the danger at least for that dosage. I couldn't be sure Daikoku could handle it under normal conditions.

But Richie didn't need to know that. And I had seen first-hand today the power a reputation could wield, for better and for worse.

So I said yes. It was theoretically possible, after all. Richie's partner whistled briefly, but said nothing more on the subject.

"All right, next question. Where you headed next, kid?"

I snorted. Not a chance. I'd had enough of a problem being recognized in this city. Richie shrugged and dropped it, and my respect for him went up several notches.

"Future goals?"

The Championships. That was vague enough, and left out the detail that I intended to be at _this year's_, which certainly would have kicked up more fuss than I already had.

The pokebattling reporter scratched his head while his partner typed. We'd pulled into my motel parking lot a while ago, but I'd remained in the van out of courtesy.

"Lastly, any comments to make of your own? I'd normally ask more questions, but this poketoxin thing is already gonna blow what everyone else has got out of the water - Misty's people already put out a press release saying she forfeited out of respect for your determination and drive, so I've got plenty of waves to make. I just wondered if you wanted to get anything across."

I thought about it. Did I really want to devolve to her level?

Then I decided that yes, since she had shot my pokemon in the leg and poisoned an entire generation of trainers with delusions of competency, I really wouldn't mind adding my own handful of mud to the slinging contest while the slinging was good.

I told Richie I was looking forward to my next Gym battle, where I would be facing my second _real_ Gym Leader.

Richie cackled, and his partner snorted, adding a few lines to his typing.

"That's gonna fucking sting in the morning, Red. We'll make a petty celebrity of you yet." Rummaging around in his pockets, the reporter found a piece of paper and quickly scribbled onto it, before handing it to me as I stepped out of their van.

It read _jrgai-viridianchronicle . pkn_

"That's my email. I'd ask for yours, but I figured you wouldn't gimme it, you seem like a private guy." And he'd be right. "Message me if you've got something interesting to share, wouldja?"

I nodded my understanding, and watched as the two rebel reporters drove off around the corner.

(=0=)

Almost as soon as I stepped inside my room, my Pokedex dinged. It was an instant message from Blue, which rapidly became many.

_cloysterexploder12: you fukken show off prick_

_cloysterexploder12: how even_

_cloysterexploder12: wait fuk u i got it_

_cloysterexploder12: toxic leech seeds? im rite, arent i_

_cloysterexploder12: red?_

_cloysterexploder12: reeeeeeeeeeeeeeed_

I checked the web briefly. No, Richie's article wasn't out yet. Plenty of amateur videos of the fight were, though, taken illegally on PEDs and phones.

From just that, Blue had already intuited my trick.

It was scary but exhilarating, seeing his mind in motion. Not that this time was particularly difficult - there was only a certain number of things within the capabilities of an ivysaur, and a certain number of things which might affect Aion. It spoke volumes that he knew the entirety of both lists and was able to narrow the answer down in seconds.

I'd never be able to use this trick against Blue, now that he'd seen it. Not that it was terribly applicable in other circumstances, of course.

In a good mood, I confirmed his suspicions.

_cloysterexploder12: haha shiiieeeeeet_

_cloysterexploder12: wanna see something cool_

_cloysterexploder12: _shibbywhatloser

Warily, I regarded his link. Last time he'd sent me a picture, it had been a dick.

_cloysterexploder12: not a dick this time_

_cloysterexploder12: sware on ur mum_

_Well, if he's that serious._ I thought sarcastically, and clicked it.

It was a thankfully normal picture this time - Blue and the instantly recognizable Bugsy, the leader of the Gym in Azalea. Blue had Bugsy in a headlock, and was giving the younger man what I knew from experience to a ferocious noogie.

Off to the side, a slightly scandalized looking League official stood, presenting the Hive Badge in a velvet case.

_cloysterexploder12: KA CHOW_

_cloysterexploder12: cute kid, but bug-types and ninetales don't mix_

_cloysterexploder12: race you to vermillion bitch_

I chuckled ruefully. I would have taken him up on his offer, but I had searched the shuttle times at the Cerulean transit authority, there weren't any shuttles leaving for Saffron for a while. All forms of public transportation were currently enlisted in bringing water and supplies to the great fortress city, whose hydroelectric plant and resorvoir had been destroyed and consumed by the snorlax Themis, who had awoken nearby from her impenetrable slumber to carve a swath of destruction through the outermost boroughs of Saffron and back out into the wild. Speculation had her somewhere between Lavender and Fuschia, now.

With the city running on reserve power and water having constantly to be brought in by hand in packages and tanks, it'd be two weeks for a shuttle to Saffron, and another two weeks to catch one out of there.

Moreover, the crisis of water and power had drawn a shortage of manpower, as well. With such a massive increase in transit on the roads, they'd had muster many times as many rangers to protect the convoys and highways from pokemon angered by the massive upsurge in noise and pollution, leaving none to patrol the walking Routes that people might have otherwise used to travel. And so, the Routes leading to and from Saffron had been closed down.

Saffron City was officially cut off from the Indigo League. And all because of the actions of one pokemon, albeit one of a species recognized more as natural disasters than living beings.

It was easy to forget how fragile our society still was, despite the hundreds of years we'd survived.

With regret, I informed Blue that I would have to turn him down, and why.

That shut him up. For about an hour. Getting out of the shower with a toothbrush my mouth, I found a email waiting in my inbox, which I opened.

Attached was a large file, which didn't make sense to me at first. It was all news clippings and what seemed to be schematics - maps and computer scanned hand drawings of interlocking tunnels and curving rail lines. The news clippings ran a timeline, of when the lead engineer had first suggested the building of a massive subway system, which would have made Saffron the travel hub of the entire Kanto region, all the way to the project's failure due to massive diglet interference. Some of the clippings were nearly one hundred years old.

_cloysterexploder12: what would you say if I could get you to Vermillion City and lose the press all at once_

_cloysterexploder12: how much do you know about the Underground?_

And that, if you were wondering, is the secret of how I bypassed the great Saffron Quarantine. Subways. It's how I made it later in my journey from Lavender Town to Celadon City and back, without a single soul knowing how. Finally, it's how I beat Blue, with all his resources, to Vermillion City on nothing but my own two feet.

Vermillion City. I remember it with melancholy. The port of exquisite sunsets, the seat of naval power in Kanto, and the home of the Vermillion Gym.

The place I came to know the terrible power of my own ambition, and nearly died because of it. The place I found and enlisted the third member of my championship team. The place I met one of the wisest creatures I ever knew, and watched him die.

And, perhaps most or least importantly, the place where I first met you.

Lt. Surge.

(=0=)

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry #121 (J. # 170): Starmie_

_Basic Characteristic: Water-type, Psychic-type, second form evolution of staryu. Blue-to-purple coloration (spectrum dependent on salinity of habitat), echinoderm, large ruby centerpiece set in gold. Avg. height 3'07", avg. weight 176.4 lbs (with all arms fully intact)._

_Description: A private, mysterious pokemon, rarely ever seen outside the deep sea. Subsists on a diet of shellder and bacteria gleaned from the water, this pokemon spends a great deal of time draining mineral reefs and using them to refine their gem and crest, which increase the amount of psychic power it can retain. Unlike other Psychic-types, starmie prefer to communicate with each other via radio frequency and light transmission, believing it to be a more private and civilized means of discourse. Listening in on these conversations using transceivers reveals a very intelligent species of pokemon capable of complex thoughts, though their gem-language has yet to be translated._

_Nickname(s): The Mysterious Pokemon, trench-novas, spinnerblinks, coldstars._

_"...And I'm tellin' yeh, you can see'em at night. Those damned spinnerblinks, flashin' their signals up int' the sky, speakin' wit' the cosmos. Every single one of 'em, calling home, right down on our 'eads..."_

(=0=)

Heavy-repeaters: Powerful weapons which propel a heavy, spade-headed dart at extreme speeds. Currently, the most deadly known brand of personal ranged weapon on the open market.

Aion the Immortal: A name won by his solo defeat of the General , until then brand-name of the Indigoan armed forces and Electric-type master of the Elite Four. Facing each of the General's pokemon, Aion allowed them each to expend their electric charge upon his body before regenerating and taking them apart. Facing massive criticism and humiliation, the normally genial man resigned his seat and fled Indigo, accepting a position as a gym leader in Hoenn, thereby cementing Aion's place in infamy. Aion's other name, Kingsbane, comes from the Imperial translation of Elite Four as 'Four Heavenly Kings'.

Snorlaxes: To this date, no snorlax has ever met death or capture at human hands. Their immune systems are so powerful that they are actually capable of fighting off conventional pokeballs, and any damage dealt is healed rapidly when they slip into their regenerative comas.

Themis: Less than thirty snorlaxes exist within range of human civilization, and are all tracked as part of a co-regional effort to protect human settlements. This small group has been nicknamed the Titanomachy, and each snorlax is given a nickname accordingly from the same legend.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Told ya I'd be back.


	11. Interlude: The Mandate of Heaven

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

(=0=)

Interlude : The Mandate of Heaven

(=0=)

_A fox should not be of the jury at a goose's trial._

_-Thomas Fuller, pre-pokemon clergyman._

(=0=)

"I'm gonna be real with you. I would have preferred an arcanine."

"Of dust you came, and to dust you will return, mortal."

"Anyway, an arcanine. Loyal, loving, powerful as all get out. But I went for ninetales because of the mythos. Ghost-type but not, illusory powers, the whole deal."

"Our power is unquestioned in heaven and earth."

"So, you know that ninetales that is always seen next to the Imperial cultural leader, and the way that Imperials treat those with a ninetales in their party? That's the main reason why I was after it. It's basically common knowledge that having a ninetales is a sign of 'heavenly favor', which is a guaranteed in for the Imperial ticket."

"By definition, our patronage is divine."

"...only they're too rare and standoffish to ever catch. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if it does take one-thousand years for one to evolve. You know, if I didn't know better. So when I heard that there was just one running around on some estate for people to catch, naturally I became interested. That was my first mistake."

"One of many to come, no doubt."

"Oh my sweet Mew, shut _up_! Where was I? Oh yeah. The Imperials were almost eager to let me visit, which made suspicious. But Will was against it, so obviously I had to do it, if only to piss him off. Story of my life, right?"

(=0=)

We'd flown in a formation of fearow, with two pidgeots taking lead and rear guard. That alone was enough to denote the wealth of the place we were heading to.

But then, anyone wealthy enough to build and maintain a settlement outside the Routes was bound to be that stupidly rich. I guess the rumors about the Imperial coffers weren't all blitzle puckey.

The Wakahisa estate was spacious and built in the Imperial fashion, rising more in parallel with nature than against it. Rice-paper partitions, wooden slatted tiles and steeples, and a landing pad entirely of white riverstone met us as our convoy touched down.

Seeing a party of Imperials politely waiting our touching down in an organized manner under the arch that marked the boundary of the estate, I decided to make a first impression.

I angled my fearow with a series of quick soft touches into a sudden dive, and unclenched my thighs, letting myself slide. I heard my 'manager' - Will's babysitter - curse behind me.

The drop was about ten feet, but the path was sand, and I'd angled my descent purposefully.

I hit the sand already rolling with the momentum, and popped up face to face with Lady Wakahisa.

The Imperial woman was a study in their picture of the ideal _yamato nadeshiko_. High cheekbones and soft, pale skin framed narrow, hazel eyes, flecked with gold and cold with apathy. Her silver hair was drawn back in a elegant top-knot, the color suggesting an advanced age which contrasted sharply with the utter flawlessness of her features. Her small, lush mouth was downturned in a sour expression that looked comfortable on her face.

It was difficult to look away from her face, despite how intimidating the Lady was. Her white, formal silk raiment only served as an accentuation to her powerful features, rather than a distraction. At the very first glance, there was no mistaking the dominating personality that was trusted with the purse strings of every Imperial family of note.

I noticed a mildly surprised expression on most of her retinue, which naturally, in Imperial terms meant they were all completely scandalized. I noticed a girl my age, with similar looks to the Lady, and surmised her to be of some relation.

Feeling diplomatic, I extended an olive branch.

"Gary Oak, or Blue, whichever you prefer." I broached the silence with a chipper tone, slapping the sand off my hand and sticking it out. "Heard you had a fox problem?"

With very deliberate slowness, the Lady Wakahisa looked down at my hand, dour expression never changing. I noticed several of her people exchanging glances.

My manager jogged up, looking mortified as he fended off the downdraft from the powerful Flying-types now taking off again. "Wakahisa-sama, please-"

Without a word, the Imperial noblewoman turned her back on me and began stalking back to the manor, flanked by butlers and attendants. The glances were exchanged again.

My manager rounded on me, tightly controlled impatience in his tone. "Mr. Oak, there are certain customs and procedures meant to be adhered to when dealing with Imperial nobility. Did you even read the email I sent?"

I sneered. "Tried to, got bored, decided to keep it simple. I don't care how off the beaten path this place is - in Kanto, people shake hands."

Complete crap, of course. Thanks to years of tagging along after Gramps at parties and functions meant I knew how to parlay with every flavor of socialite in Indigo.

But all this arrangement, the eager way they invited me to participate in this so-called 'Rite'...this whole thing smelled like rotten remoraid.

So I'd poked a stick at the most obvious target...

...and gotten well, nothing. Should have figured the Imperial coin-counter would have a good poker face.

Whatever. I hadn't been kicked out yet.

"Oak-san," Came the firm, enthusiastic voice behind me. I turned.

Sasuke Gozen - or Gozen Sasuke, I guess, in their tongue - was the lordling who had insisted so firmly on my coming. He was younger than me by about a year or so, but that didn't really make a difference - they started'em young in Imperial households, especially the noble ones.

Personally, I thought his robes made him look like a complete dweeb at his age, but he'd probably started swimming in politics earlier than I had. The Gozen Clan was the second most prominent family in the Imperial party after the Himura, with rumblings that they wouldn't mind changing that. He'd been a stepping stone on the way to meeting Aya, my now advisor and contact within the Japanese.

A stepping stone who'd unexpectedly paid dividends.

"I have no doubts the Lady Wakahisa will forgive your slights, my friend." The young lordling said 'my friend' awkwardly, like he was trying the words out for the first time. "At the meal, no doubt- ah, Yokoko-chan!" He cut off abruptly, looking past me.

I found myself turning again. It was the girl from before, who'd stood beside the Lady.

She was a vision in formal robes of white and red - signifying piety or priesthood some near thing, I dimly recalled.

Now, some people have real trouble telling Imperials apart. For me, it's the opposite. All the subtle details and distinctions - I could tell a Japanese from a main continent Imperial in a dark room with one eye closed.

The cheekbones, the fine robes, and the resemblance were all clear as day to me - I'd bet my bottom idol that this girl was none other than the Lady Wakahisa's daughter - Yokoko Wakahisa.

Or Wakahisa Yokoko. What_ever_.

"Oak-sama. Gozen-kun." She addressed us demurely, bowing slightly. "If you'll follow me."

Will's manager, Gozen and I followed at a distance. Each one of them filled my ear.

"Lord Gozen is right, Oak, we can repair our relations at dinner-"

"-a very c-comely maiden she is, isn't she, Oak-san? Why, I think she fancies me-"

I listened with no commitment, though. My mind had begun racing when my gaze had met Yokoko's.

Cold, calculating eyes. Weighing me up like a nugget on a scale.

Yeah, somebody was after something, here. As usual, it was probably my ass.

(=0=)

Dinner was a very formal affair. Even preparing for it was a big deal.

First we took off our shoes before entering. Okay, fine.

Then, we were offered tea to whet our appetites. Why not.

Then, we were summarily told to disrobe and bathe in copper bathtubs. Now, hold on one fucking-

I kid. The bathtubs weren't that bad. Sure, I'd never wanted to see that much of my manager (whose name continued to escape me, he was _that_ unimportant) or Gozen, but getting scrubbed up by the washing girls was pretty nice. Besides, Gozen took it completely in stride, and I wasn't about to turn into a blushing maiden in front of that knobby kneed nerd.

I kept alert, though. My suspicion only grew in interacting with the help.

Now, Imperial servants are supposed to be invisible but supplicant. I was the guest of honor, and all I was due to get was deference in all things.

But I'm Gary goddamn Oak. The day I can't get a reaction out of someone is the day I turn in my pokedex.

I had to work my naked butt off to get it, mind you. I thought 'accidentally' standing up a few times to order more tea might do it. I thought breaking out my bawdiest jokes (the only Imperial I knew) would be able to do it. Finally, I thought informing them that my manager was only here as my _uke_, and describing in detail the things we got up to would do it.

It was only at the end of a rather inspired haiku about how my manhood and mastery of pokeballs were connected that I managed to get a blush out of a fluent kimono girl-

-who was almost immediately rushed out of the room by two others.

I subsided after that, in a dark mood. I hadn't done it all just to troll. I'd done it to confirm my hypothesis.

The servants had instructions about me. I was being handled very carefully.

In retrospect, that was their first mistake.

(=0=)

"Oak Gary-sama-" The herald began, before dissolving into a fit of Imperial I assume involved announcing me.

"So since you didn't read my package, I have to explain everything again." My manager hissed in my ear. "The Rite of Succession-"

I tuned him out once again. I only had eyes for the Lady Wakahisa.

The Imperial noblewoman was now clad all in red silk, rouged cheeks and golden hair ornaments resplendent against her paleness. By her side, Yokoko sat, clad in the same colors as before, if a slightly more fancy iteration. The two Wakahisas sat at the end of the very low table we would be dining at, with many important Imperial persons, Gozen among them already. The Lady met my stare unflinching, black-amber eyes hard and unfeeling.

My manager and I were also clad in robes by now, our clothes having disappeared in place of them by the time we got out of the bath. I couldn't decide whether it was a technique to put me off or an indirect insult towards my sense of fashion.

The herald finished and clapped two pieces of wood together rather loudly a few times. Then he bowed three times and retreated, still bent at the waist.

Imperials. It was probably both.

I noticed the eyes of the nobles attending following me as I rounded the table. Waiting for me to fail, or trip up. Searching for weakness.

I turned curtly on one heel and planted myself in perfect _seiza_, exactly in my proper seat, right at the Lady's left. Despite the famed Imperial stoicism, I noticed a few eyebrows raised.

Yeah, bitch. Honorable _that_.

"-don't intend that you actually _catch_ the ninetales-"

I frowned, a blurb of the manager's prattling reaching me. "What? That's why I decided to come in the first place."

He sighed in exasperation. I felt a vein in my temple pulse slightly as excess blood rushed through it angrily.

"The point of the Rite of Succession is that upon completion, you - or rather, the Oak family - will be recognized as a great clan of Indigo, and as such, a worthy client. Your money will _balloon_ like an angry jigglypuff with the Wakahisas as your bankers, never mind your status among the Imperials. Hardly anyone outside the blood is ever offered this honor. Don't mess this up, Gary."

_Blue._ I corrected him mentally, furious. But then, I thought about it and realized, _Gary is fine, actually. You don't _deserve_ to know me by that name._

"Sure." I replied, smiling easily.

We began with the meal. Polite, agonizingly boring small talk was exchanged - basically, it was considered to rude to start in on a sensitive topic in the middle of the meal, because it meant you might force the host to eject you to preserve good relations, raising the question of whether he intended to feed you in the first place...

I don't pretend to understand it. Tradition is the rotting fucking _corpse_ of wisdom, but I paid it it's due all the same.

At least the food was good. Well, except for the venomoth caviar. Hate that shit.

Finally, Yokoko ordered softly that the food be taken away. Servants rushed in, a silent, deferent wave.

More low tables were brought in, and the seating was rearranged. Wakahisa attendants took up positions at the corners. Now, I found myself sitting across the long room from the Lady Wakahisa and her daughter, my manager at my side, with the guests and lords seated at two rows of tables to the left and right. The empty floor between us was less than ten paces across, but it felt vast.

"We begin, with the history of the Rite." Yokoko spoke, her voice now loud and sonorous.

The rice-paper partitions slid aside behind us, and I forced myself not to crane my neck around as my manager did. Several of the lords retrieved pipes to smoke - including Gozen, who might I say looked completely fucking ridiculous trying not to cough his lungs out.

Newcomers rushed into the space between. They were eleven, all dressed in strange garb. Nine were dressed in identical Imperial armor, each bearing a different mask, human faces twisted, daggers in their belts. One's armor was far more ostentatious than the others, bearing a short standard with the symbols of their language writ on it and a katana in his belt. His face was a vision of glee, mouth up-twisted into an expression of unsettling mischief.

And then there was the last, clad all in red furs and cloth. It's mask was the most detailed, with whiskers and snout artfully molded into clay. An animal.

_No, a_ pokemon.

The actors all took up positions and froze, still like statues. The room was utterly silent, even the lords issuing only short hand signals for their pipes to be lit and such. I intuited that talking would be extremely rude at this point.

A musician entered with a long stringed instrument, and took a seat slightly behind and to the side of the Lady Wakahisa, a position of distinct honor. He did not begin to play.

"Long has it been known to we, the blood of the ancient Empire, that the _kitsune_ are of great cunning. It is known that to outsmart them is impossible, and that many a dying _samurai_ has lost his soul on the battlefield, attempting to barter for life or victory from the fox, who was known to have powers from beyond the grave capable of granting wishes."

The musician started up, playing deliberate, twanging notes, invoking a mysterious feeling. The pokemon actor moved, arms twisting in spiral motions. I recognized him now. Vulpix, first evolutionary form of the ninetales.

"But Lord Wakahisa was a man of great cunning, having won many vassals and great acclaim with his sly wit in the ravaged lands of the Neo-Dark age."

A fast series of notes. The gilded warrior leapt and unveiled a war fan, twisting it in complex turns. The other nine warriors knelt to him.

"The Lord Wakahisa was sure that if he could claim for himself the power of the _kitsune_, he could become _shogun_ of all Kanto, and bring the disparate lands together under his rule. Long did he travel, accumulating lore upon the fox, until he was certain he could broker a deal."

The notes became yet faster, varying wildly in range. The nine warriors and Lord Wakahisa all jumped as one and began running in place, until The Lord alone jumped, landing and sweeping his fan in a gesture which made all of them freeze.

"They hunted out and found a young _kitsune_, wandering the wilderness, and confronted it."

Now, all eleven actors moved, twanging notes filling the room. The Lord and his warriors formed a line, chasing the fox in a short circle several times before the fox came to the middle, slightly to the right. Wakahisa and his nine warriors formed a half moon on the other side, facing it down. All froze.

"'You there, fox!' the Lord cried. 'I have traveled the land and know the truth of you, now. Nine souls do you need, given willingly, to take your final form everlasting and come into your ghostly powers. Nine wishes you must grant to do so; nine geas you must abide in life to wield the might of the beyond. In knowing, an accord do I seek with you.'"

The notes came more haltingly now. The Lord Wakahisa moved animatedly, leaping about like a mankey and jabbing at the fox with finger and fan.

"'Much does Lord Wakahisa know' said the fox, wise and canny despite its age. 'But does he know his own desire? Speak your words, man, and let us come to term-making'"

The fox made slow, elegant gestures, curling into a come hither pose and freezing as the music ended.

"'Nine lives do I offer, fox; these men sworn to serve me unto death, to serve _in_ death. Loyal men are they, owning as I do all that they own; their wishes they will pass onto me, and I shall forge them to lasting oaths. The power of the underworld and the ninefold tails to shall be yours this day, fox, if you only agree.'"

The nine warriors stepped forward, now kneeling at the fox's feet. The Lord Wakahisa finished in an impetuous position, face half-hidden by his fan, now beckoning the fox as it was him.

"The fox laughed. 'So mote it be, oh wise Lord. Into your service, I am come.'"

The nine samurai unsheathed their wooden daggers, and in a gruesome display, gutted themselves in unison, crumpling into a kowtow to the fox, foreheads pressed the ground.

With a flourish, the fox actor sloughed off his dress, cloth and fur crumpling to the ground. I saw now why it had been so lumpy - nine white tails of no doubt authentic fur sprang up behind him, freed from their confinement. He removed his red vulpix mask, revealing a more minimalist white one beneath it. The ninetales spread its arms in a grand gesture.

"And so did the fox take up the souls, and swear nine oaths to Lord Wakahisa. Each oath a wish, spoken from the mouth of his samurai, in words he had before coached them-"

"What were the nine oaths, exactly?" I interrupted.

There were many gasps. The lords, after overcoming their shock, began muttering fiercely in their tongue to each other. Gozen looked betrayed; my manager looked absolutely livid. The actors were about the only ones who didn't react, but then, who the hell knows what sort of deeply offended, Imperial expressions they were making behind those masks.

I didn't bat an eyelash at any of it. I kept my eyes on the Lady Wakahisa. I'd finally gotten a reaction out of her.

She had arched one perfectly-plucked eyebrow, a indescribable expression on her face.

Well, if she wanted to have a staring contest, she'd picked the _wrong_ opponent. I had years of practice against Red on the playground, and actually won half the time, where no other kid could go more than a few seconds against him without getting a headache. _Fear and despair, ye bitch, for I am the_ king_ of ocular fortitude!_

Yokoko, glancing between me and her mother, hesitantly started again. "...in words he had before coached them-"

"_Ie_. No. Leave us."

There was a voice I hadn't heard before. After an entire meal of silence, the Lady Wakahisa spoke, in a rich, low alto. The actors and musician didn't hesitate, practically scrambling out of the room. The muttering nobles subsided as well to silence, waiting on their host.

As the partitions closed, the Lady spoke. "Did the actors displease you, oh son of Oak? Or are you so eager to begin the Rite? If you like, I can summarize the rest."

I smiled lightly. "You didn't answer my question. The nine oaths?"

The Lady's full lips tightened briefly, before twisting into an answering smile. The expression looked uncomfortable. "To give no word that is false. To sire no heirs or keep counsel with other monsters unless given leave. To protect the grounds of Wakahisa Castle and the prosperity of the Wakahisa Clan. To allow by action or inaction the destruction or theft of the ball which contains him, nor the destruction of the sword of Lord Wakahisa. To remain within the shrine grounds, measuring twenty-seven thousand _shaku_ by sixteen-thousand _shaku_, until bidden by Lord Wakahisa, or any master chosen by the Rite. To obey the orders of only the Lord Wakahisa, or any master chosen by the Rite. To harm not or allow harm to the direct descendants of Lord Wakahisa, or any master chosen by the Rite. To speak to inquisitors of the Lord Wakahisa and his oaths in full."

"Finally, to abide by the Rite itself as follows: that, in the event that a Lord Wakahisa does not exist, to obey the orders of a master chosen by the Wakahisa Clan. The master shall be one who, bearing the sword of Lord Wakahisa, passes within the shrine grounds of the castle. He shall then appear before the bearer, and not harm them till the time of next morning prayer. The bearer will be considered the master after they have retrieved the ball from the shrine, returned the fox to the ball, and returned the sword of Lord Wakahisa to such member of the Wakahisa Clan as chose them. Thereafter shall that one be master of he who is the fox, so long as they live and remain in the favor of the Wakahisa Clan. Should that one die or lose favor, he is who the fox shall return to the grounds to await a Lord Wakahisa, or another who complete the Rite. His master shall be none other than they who complete the Rite, or any member of the Wakahisa Clan the master so elects."

The Lady Wakahisa stopped abruptly, allowing a sharp silence to fill the air.

"As you can see, the Lord Wakahisa of eld thought them through quite extensively." The banker offered, a tad tart.

"Huh." I offered.

I sat a second, mulling them over carefully.

"They seem pretty airtight. So how'd he get screwed, then?" I asked curiously, ignoring the scandalized looks the guests exchanged at my ineloquence. "I mean, that's the way the story was going, wasn't it? How - _ahhh._" I cut off suddenly with an epiphany. "'Direct descendants', huh?"

The Lady Wakahisa's eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze becoming keen. "Quite. In spending so much time ensuring the survival of his line and legacy, Lord Wakahisa utterly neglected to include any clause ensuring his own personal safety. As soon as his oaths were sworn, the fox slew him, and to this day remains upon the shrine grounds."

There was a moment of uncomfortable shuffling among the nobles, possibly at the thought of being so close to such a powerful pokemon.

"Worried, son of Oak?" She continued smoothly. "As is stated in the oaths, the fox may not harm you once you take up the ball until next morning's prayer. The grounds themselves are only about five-by-three miles, and the path to the shrine is well-lit; surely not much of a journey for a trainer such as yourself. Nowadays, as I am sure you have been told, the Rite is mostly used as a ceremony to signify alliance with the Wakahisa Clan."

I snorted loudly. "If anyone should be worried, it's you. Your ceremony might lose some of its flash after I catch that fox of yours."

The Lady Wakahisa laughed. "So mote it be, trainer. Let us waste no more time. Yokoko, the sword. Son of Oak, your pokeballs; this ceremony, you will complete alone."

Yokoko rose smoothly, retrieving a katana from where it had sat behind her. The sheath was black laquer, and the end of the hilt was set with a large, red gem. The grip was warm to the touch as I received it in two hands, gauging the weight.

Reluctantly, I passed my pokeballs - Blacky, Aeolus and a raticate I'd bought to train both the others - over to Yokoko. "Keep an eye, will ya?"

The daughter of the Wakahisa Clan bowed briefly in acceptance. "If you will follow me. We will adjourn now to the shrine grounds."

I rose and followed her, sword held loosely in hand, feeling a bit peeved.

_What a wordy fucking way to say something as simple as 'let__'s go'._

(=0=)

Few words passed between us on the way down to the shrine grounds, but those that did weren't frivolous.

We came to a halt in front of a great _tora_ gate. A stone sentinel carved in the likeness of the ninetales stood guard at the gate, a lit paper lantern hanging from its jaws. Further down the path, I saw two more placed at even intervals, before the path wound into the trees and out of sight.

I regarded the path skeptically, hefting the ancient sword in my left hand experimentally. "What's to say the fox doesn't convince some other pokemon in there to schwack me? This pretty pigsticker will do shit all against the emboar I hear roam these parts."

"The _kitsune_ is strictly bound - it can have no interaction with others of its kind." Yokoko reassured. Her hands fluttered nervously in her kimono sleeves.

"...'kay. Suppose a pokemon, of its own accord, decides it doesn't like the look of me. Doesn't like my face or something. What then?"

"I _suppose_ you would endeavor towards haste, so that they might be exposed to it for as short a period as possible." The heiress answered smoothly, turning to show me her back. "Time is wasting. Good luck."

I watched her go, frown deepening.

"I think the shrine girl just sassed me." I told the empty air.

There was no answer. I sighed, and made my way down the empty cobblestone path.

The shrine ground path was extremely circuitous. It wound into gardens, into well kept fountain courtyards. The Lady hadn't lied - it _was_ well-lit. The paper lanterns cast bright amber light onto the stones...

...and into the forest, where dark shapes loomed, immoving.

No bullshit. The first time I saw one I Mew-damn near shat my _hakama_ pants. It took me a few seconds of measured breathing and almost ten minutes of tense walking past them before I snapped.

"Fuck this horror-movie crap."

Taking one of the paper lanterns in two hands, I wrenched it from its place with a metallic twang. The brass filigree was probably expensive and carefully made. The paper even more so.

I didn't care. I poked a hole in the side with my middle finger and pinched the handle out, cursing as a spot of wax burned my hand. Then I strode purposefully into the forest towards the shape, sword gripped tight.

The shadows bled away as leaves crunched under my feet, revealing...another statue.

This fox statue was different from the others. It was sculpted in mid-leap, face snarling. With this new knowledge in place, I recatalogued the shapes I had seen previously, imaginging them as foxes. It fit. But why build them off the beaten path?

I didn't hear or see anything. But I just barely smelt it.

Fur. And something strange beneath it-

My instincts screamed in warning, and I swung around, eyes wide and candle flickering.

Nothing but an empty forest, and the path off to my left.

My heartbeat began to return to normal, and I almost let myself believe it was my imagination.

But no. The crawling feeling at the base of my skull was no phantasm. I replaced the sword into my robe belt, and reached inside the breast, fingers curling around the scrap of paper I'd found there.

_The siege of your mind is already underway. Your eyes and ears are the sappers._

I crunched back to the path and set off at a light jog, all too aware I was not alone.

(=0=)

I was getting lost.

No, that's not right. I was deliberately _being_ lost. With each abrupt turn and pass through the shrine grounds, I became more and more convinced that it was designed to disorient.

_Cute_. I thought. As if I hadn't learned to tell direction by starlight when I was eleven, thinking I was already ready to head off on my journey.

Sure, the knowledge took a little dusting off, but I never forgot anything I learned. Not really.

I liked to think all Oaks had a natural sense of direction. Our family had first come into greatness by designing and masterminding the Route system - my great-great-to-the-nth-degree grandmother. I'd tried to take up cartography in homage, but Daisy had shot past me fast enough that I'd conceded the field to her. Maybe it was only on the women side of the family.

Astronomy had come easily enough, though. I quickly located a few constellations and oriented myself to where I estimated I had begun, drawing a line to the red roof I'd seen on the flight in, near the center of the shrine grounds.

Yes, I was nearly there.

_Scratch that._ I gave myself a pat on the back as I came around a bend, _I'm right on the money._

The shrine was small, and open to the air. The forest around it had been cleared and flattened in a large circle to create an artificial clearing. The path from where I stood to the shrine itself was lit by a row of lanterns on each side. Absently, as I stepped out into the clearing, I noted gooseflesh ripple up my body.

_Show time._

As I approached, every sound seemed to become louder. The scratch of my sandals. The sound of my breathing. I almost paused when I realized why.

The forest was falling silent. All the natural sounds - the rustling of leaves, the passage of the night wind, the off-time calling of nocturnal pokemon - were fading away, as if I were leaving them and the world behind.

A brief spike of primal panic shot through me before I bit down on my lip, hard, forcing myself calm.

_Easy, Oak. Remember those goosebumps? There's a Ghost-type around. You've already been told everything you see and hear is suspect._

The wood panels of the shrine made no sound as I ascended. The world seemed to narrow down until all that remained was my objective.

The pokeball was old, very obviously so. The coarse case was obviously made of apricot shell, heralding back to the Neo-Dark, where metal was too scarce to be wasted on anything but the essential inner wiring and hardware. My hand hovered over it, and the night itself seemed to still slightly in anticipation.

_It wants me to take it. Something happens when I do. Some clock starts running._ My mind was working so furiously that I was surprised the skin of my scalp didn't start cooking. _This springs the trap, whatever it is. Or rather..._

Impulsively, I seized the pokeball and spun around.

The path was gone. And one by one, the lanterns began to wink out.

_...rather, I've been in the trap ever since I walked in._

The forest was absolutely silent but for the now overly harsh sounds of my breathing. My flesh pebbled further, all my hairs seeming to stand on end, as if they were trying to escape my body.

The details crawled in slowly, as if they were always there, and it had just taken till this moment for me to see them.

Mist rose from the ground in wisps. The trees moved fitfully, writhing, boughs and branches straining as if they were trying to tear themselves apart. They were moving by themselves, I realized. The slight wind I felt against my skin wasn't nearly enough to move them like that.

And from the darkness, ghostly white shapes emerged. Ninetales.

Head height, with pure white silken fur, they regarded me with amber eyes that glowed preternaturally in the night.

Nine white foxes, on nine white paths. There _were_ nine paths leading from nine shrines now, I realized, and almost laughed at the absurdity.

I was standing in the middle of a ghost story.

Not every fox did the same thing. Some stopped. Some paced languidly, others raised hackles, tails rigid.

They all said the same thing, though. Imperial.

_"Omae wa mou shinde iru. Omae wa mou shinde iru. Omae..."_

You are already dead.

A garish light began to rise from the horizon, and with it, a steady, dull roar.

Flames. The shrine grounds were burning.

I moved faster than I think I ever had before. My arm was blur, whipping the pokeball forward, red light exploding forward from the ancient device to capture the fox.

The red capture light pierced the center of the fox's forehead-

-and did nothing. Slowly, the ninetales dissolved into the mist that carpeted the forest floor.

I snorted. "Worth a shot."

And then I took off at the speed one might expect from one being chased by something not too far from a literal hound of hell.

_Gary Oak: he died running through a burning forest full of ghost foxes._

Even in death, my cenotaph would make everyone else look like a loser.

As I fled, my overtaxed mind leapt into turbodrive.

With an hyper-analytical razor I began to prune my gathered insights, dividing the useful from the useless, separating the possible from the (hopefully) impossible. Trees, wreathed in fire and mist blurred past me as I marshaled the harried forces of my formidable brain.

The facts arrayed themselves in front of me. At least two of my senses couldn't be trusted, namely the senses most necessary for navigation. I was in the middle of my enemy's territory. And I had absolutely no means to defend myself beyond a sharpened edge of steel.

Distantly, I felt the warmth of the pommel stone, beating a tattoo against the palm of my hand, slick with sweat.

In summation I was helpless. With a cold mental flick I flayed the negative emotions from that thought and built upon it.

I was at the ninetales' mercy. Why, then, did it not strike to end things when it was obviously within it's power?

Deduction: something was obviously holding it back from doing so.

I stopped, allowing oxygen to rush back into my veins as I forced myself into creativity. All around me the shrine grounds raged, white shapes flickering at the edge of my vision, terrifying hoots and yowls filling the night.

A hidden trainer? I put aside the hypothesis. If some sadistic or hired trainer was directing it then I was well and truly bent, thus rendering the notion worthless to my current situation.

My mind seized upon a very likely idea: the nine oaths. Some facet of the oaths was holding it back from finishing me.

I catalogued its actions thus far. It had shown no compunctions about casting illusions upon me, so it could take action against me. A prohibition against direct injury was the most likely.

So it couldn't hurt me. Then why put forth the effort?

I slowly turned in circles, surveying the now utterly unfamiliar forest. A slow chill roiled my stomach as an epiphany struck me.

If it was as simple as a total ban against violence it would have simply hidden itself from ever being caught and let me go. After all, why expend the effort? The shrine grounds weren't large. Even blind and deaf, I would wander free of the sphere of its influence eventually.

I closed my glamoured eyes and concentrated, bringing back what I had learned of the Rite.

"... to obey the orders of a master chosen...passes within the shrine grounds...he shall then appear before the bearer, and not harm them till the time of next morning..."

_It's not that it can't hurt me. The fox just can't hurt me _yet.

"...Lord Wakahisa, you _asshole_."

I was _literally_ living on a prayer.

I opened my eyes. The scenery hadn't changed. But this knowledge had changed the circumstances drastically.

'Next morning's prayer' could mean a number of things. It could be a set time, a variable time chosen, or whenever any Imperial cunt in the castle woke up early and decided to have a little 'ligion at the crack of dawn.

What it meant to me was I had until then to complete the Rite and become the new master. Otherwise, I would be the fox's to kill, either as a trespasser on the grounds or perhaps under the clause that I was trying to steal it's pokeball. Either way, I would be cooked.

_Somebody set me up._

More questions, dark suspicions and conspiracies both bubbled up, but I suppressed them with effort.

I stared up, seeking some sign to guide me, and found nothing. The fox's magic had swallowed the night sky. There were no stars, only the dancing flames and hacking laughter of the beast I had entered this gambit to tame.

I would never escape this forest alone.

I ran until I found a stream. Running had been a cleansing process of itself. Not even the apparitions of the ninetales, leaping from open flames and behind trees to menace me could halt my progress.

First, I purged myself of my doubts and fears. Pain and injury were no strangers to me.

And death? Preposterous. I was Gary Oak. The very root of my personality rejected this sort of ignoble end.

Wielding my ego like a scythe, I reaped the insecurities which flagged at me, and then tossed it, too, aside. Ego would not save my life, not here.

Second, I rid myself of secondary objectives. Escape was untenable. Surrender was unpalatable. And failure was unsurvivable.

Only victory was plausible. Thus, the only path I had was to take the stolen vessel in my hand and bind the ninetales here, in the heart of it's fiefdom, where it's power was strongest.

I would capture the ninetales or die.

I took a step forward, and my foot sank down into something squishy and warm. A pungent odor filled my nose. I hardly noticed, as focused as I was.

The only question that remained was: where was the ninetales?

It would have to be close, to keep an eye on me, but far enough that the pokeball's light couldn't reach it.

Close enough to watch, but far enough to-

The realization was almost violent. My gaze snapped up to the castle, balcony still twinkling just above the treeline, and-

_-To the honorable Oak Gary-sama, I formally extend-_

-all-

_-have not sired a male heir in over a century (source; Himura Clan archives)-_

-the-

_-"When the play draws to a close, ask after the oaths." The bath girl whispered, before being rushed away, pretending to blush-_

-pieces-

_-Imperial servants, never coming too close, always giving her a wide berth, the lord's faces stern and unchanging. Lord Wakahisa's mocking mask-_

-came-

_-Smiling, painted lips. "Did you know? A mile in _shaku_ is actually_-

-together.

"..._oh_."

(=0=)

It had been quite a night.

The nobles had gathered on the highest level of the castle to watch the spectacle from high above the shrine grounds.

It had been a very slow start. Watching the Oak boy be escorted by Yokoko downwards and then make his meandering way through the shrine path was something of a bore, so they'd subsided to gossip and pipesmoke. The Oak boy's manager, while not of the blood, had been trained to a level of manners acceptable to converse with.

The Lady Wakahisa and her daughter separated themselves, as was the norm for their gender and station.

"We do not belittle his talent. It is his manner that is an affront." Old Tokichi-sensei, a old and well-respected martial artist, clarified, top-knot bobbing from one side to another.

The Oak boy's manager, a clean shaven man in the early thirties nodded vehemently. "I couldn't agree more, honored elder. Why, as soon as this escapade is over..."

Before long, the Oak boy reached the shrine. Distantly, a thin line of red pierced the night as he activated the pokeball for the first time.

"Do you think he'll catch the _kitsune_?" Young Gozen Sasuke asked, wringing his hands on the railing nervously.

Several of the older men inhaled a great deal of smoke laughing. One of the older retainers, Shonosuke-sama, the well-respected president of a sumo society, took it on himself to assure him as the other elders coughed. "Young master, if you do not recall, even your older brother, surely the strongest of our blood in this generation, failed to catch Wakahisa's Bane. This did not stop him from capturing greater glories, even Koga's lovely flower, no? The Oak boy will fail, as all others did. Your chance will come."

The Gozen heir bit his lip and said nothing more, staring out across the distance.

More beams of red light lanced out from the canopy as the Oak boy fled through the forest in winding paths.

"It won't be long now." Akibahara-sensei, a notable name in porygon development confided, with the air of someone imparting great wisdom.

For a long while, things were silent after that. The young lord Gozen kept anxiously checking his timepiece, pocket-watch snapping open and closed at a rate that was almost improper. The full lips of the Lady Wakahisa pursed briefly in disatisfaction. Wakahisa Yokoko's fair face was as blank as a doll beside her.

Finally, after another round of tea, the noble Muramasa-san, a well-respected martial artist and pokebattler, spoke up.

"It is likely the boy, ego blinding him, refuses to now recognize his defeat. He would not be the first Oak to be so ungracious." Many heads nodded in agreement. "Unfortunately, I have encountered this problem many times myself in my own students, and it is unlikely to resolve itself in a timely manner. I am of the opinion, Wakahisa-sama, that someone should be sent to inform the Oak boy of his failure."

"No." The Lady responded shortly.

The men exchanged glances and fell silent. Such a response was somewhat outside the realm of politeness, but given how much higher in status she was compared to any of them, and given her position as their host, it fell to them to save face before her, rather than the other way around. One did not chastise the Imperial party treasurer lightly.

"As you say, Wakahisa-sama." Muramasa-san replied, with as much grace as was allowed to him.

Breakfast ended up being served on the terrace. Staying up through the night proved hard on some of the older men, but to bow out would be inexcusably rude.

The sun had just begun to dawn, when a large gout of flame erupted in the forest below, startling the collected nobles, many of whom had begun to nod off, despite themselves.

"_Kami_ great and small!" Akibahara-sensei, a newcomer to the Rite swore. "The _kitsune_-!"

"...ah. So it is one of those." Tokichi-sensei, a more veteran attendee of the Rite, slowly surveyed his fellows, looking for the culprit. Several other elders' heads slowly swiveled as well, clearly wondering the same thing.

It was hardly surprising. The Oak boy had many enemies, and few friends, none of whom were in attendance. It wouldn't be the first time the Rite had claimed a life.

More gouts of flame spouted off, bursts of orange red in the distance.

The boy's manager was having a fit. "That fox is going to kill him! Do you know how much is invested in him!? Do something!"

Shonosuke-sama shook his head solemnly. "There is nothing to do. Oak dwelled too long. His life is now forfeit." He told the manager, lying and comforting at once.

Finally, the flames stopped. There was quiet on the terrace, a notable absence of chatter, as if the guilt of the murder would fall on whoever broke the silence first. The Lady Wakahisa wrinkled her nose, as if displeased. Yokoko was worrying at her lip in an unladylike manner.

"Is it over?" Gozen Sasuke asked, finally unable to contain himself. "Is he dead?"

"You _fucking_ wish."

The Lady Wakahisa was the fastest on the draw, all of them whirling around-

-to behold Gary Oak, ancient pokeball in hand pointed straight at them. The boy's umbreon slinked noiselessly through his ankles, regarding them with glowing amber eyes.

The boy wore a vicious slash of a grin, his _haori_ belt into which the Wakahisa family sword was tucked, and _absolutely nothing else_.

He also seemed to be liberally smeared with several pounds of, when the wind shifted and the smell hit them, what several men deduced to be _shit_.

"Wh-"

"You lose!" Blue hissed, and light exploded from the pokeball.

(=0=)

The red capture light lanced out impossibly fast, finally terminating in a static point on the Lady Wakahisa's breast.

The light remained there, motionless and unchanging. A very pregnant pause ensued.

The Lady raised one eyebrow. "How dramatic." She commented dryly. Next to her, Yokoko's eyes were impossibly wide.

The light flickered and died, the pokeball falling dull. I frowned, running my thumb over the oval photoreceptor.

"Now, if you wouldn't mind returning the family's property." The Lady continued, gesturing to one of her servants. The smartly dressed man stepped forward, hands outstretched.

Understanding dawned on me slowly, and I snorted, smile returning.

"No, I wouldn't mind. Returning the sword, that is." With one smooth motion, I yanked it free, divesting myself of the only strip of cloth I was then wearing. "To Yokoko."

Was that a flicker of fear I saw? "There is no need for that. My daughter will not be handling anything coming from such filthy-"

"Then you, then." I cut her off, baring my teeth. "How about you take it? I'll even give up the pokeball if you come over here and take it."

One of the guests finally overcame his no doubt massive emasculation in the face of my awesome girth and spoke. "The nerve of you!" He sputtered, seemingly too furious to speak. "How dare-"

"_UNLESS! YOU! CAN'T!"_

I screamed it as loudly and lustily as I could, and man, I have a decent pair of lungs. Many of the nobles flinched. Little Gozen looked like he was about to pinch a very honorable loaf in his pants. Good. I didn't feel like being interrupted.

"A few factoids that those trainers among you might recognize." I spoke slowly, languidly, savoring the taste. "The photoreceptor of a pokeball is designed to withstand nearly half a hundred times as much light as a capture light, or return light as some call it, puts out without melting. Do you know why this is?"

Several of their hands were drifting towards the inside of their robes. I fixed each of them with maddened glares, and the hands fell away.

"It's to accommodate the massive increase in energy that is your pokemon passing back through it. It's designed not to melt even over hundreds of thousands of uses, carrying pokemon large or small. This does not," I continued. "prevent the light from heating _ever so slightly_ upon the return of medium to large pokemon."

I held up the ancient, apricorn-shell pokeball. "That's modern photoreceptors, of course. My question is this, essentially:" I finished, tapping the pad of my thumb on the oval of metal. "why, oh _why_, despite what we just _saw_, is this old piece of glass red hot right now?"

Lady Wakahisa's face was cold and unmoved. "This man is raving. Apprehend him and return the Wakahisa Clan's property!"

Instantly, several of the nobles rushed me. Kneeing one in his royal jewels, I bought myself enough space for a good throw.

The antique _katana_ went flying, and landed in the arms of a startled Yokoko, which was all I saw before I got dogpiled by multiple master martial-artists.

"The ball!" I heard the Lady exclaim. "Recover the ball!"

And then-

"Wakahisa-sama!" Gozen yelped over the ringing sound of steel, which caught everyone's attention. "Look _out_!"

And then Yokoko drove her family sword through her mother's heart.

Everybody froze. I swear you could have heard a rattata fart in the ensuing silence.

Then the Lady Wakahisa's face twisted, past expression into distortion, before the woman disappeared entirely, vanishing into a cloud of smoke, the illlusion shattered.

Shock spread through the esteemed party like an eruption. The nobles started shouting. Gozen looked stricken.

I looked down at my feet, where faithful Blacky prowled at my side. The Dark-type made to rub up against me, before taking one offended sniff and thinking better of it. I snorted, scratching one clod that crusted in my hair. _Fair enough, baby. I probably fouled up the Distortion World pretty good on the way here._

"What the hell is this!?" One demanded, immediately followed by many similar complaints. I spotted my manager, seemingly dumbfounded into silence.

It was a good look for him.

Yokoko flourished the _katana_, which seemed to get everyone's attention, before sheathing it with a click.

"What happened?" She asked rhetorically, tilting her head archly. All of the coyness and demureness from before had vanished like a summer rain. "In a feat unmatched since the first Lord Wakahisa, Gary Oak has completed the Rite, and in doing so ended a curse on my family centuries old."

Many of the nobles turned to look at me, including my manager and Gozen, who was ashen-faced.

I smirked and held up the pokeball. Before Yokoko's eyes could do more than widen, I released it.

The ninetales appeared as it had in the forest, white-furred and bare fanged. It grew ten times as tall in an instant, flames leaping up around the castle. The sound of wailing filled the air, and blood began to seep up from the floorboards.

The nobles cowered. Gozen shrieked louder than Yokoko. And my manager fainted. In short, it was awesome. I craned my neck to stare up at him, nonplussed.

The monster's voice boomed like a commandment from Arceus himself. _"OMAE WA-!"_

"Shut up, stop _glamouring_ and roll over. Right now." I ordered him, in complete deadpan.

All the noises of the illusion faded. The scenery returned to normal, and suddenly the ninetales was normal sized again, and staring at me in what I'm sure was the closest vulpine equivalent to utter disbelief.

Then - with infinite, _glorious_ slowness - the fox lowered himself onto his stomach and rolled onto his back. Tails splayed, paws wobbling in the air as it struggled to balance them, the ninetales looked a whole lot less threatening than the creature that had done its best to charbroil me in the forest.

I turned to look at the assembled nobles, most of whom seemed lost for words.

"Just so we're clear," I informed them daintily, still completely damned naked. "it's _Lord_ Oak to you, losers."

Then I walked inside the castle, squishing with every step.

(=0=)

Eventually, a bath and short meal later, I found myself in the dining room with the assorted bluebloods, Gozen and Yokoko. Thankfully, my manager had yet failed to wake up.

Which was fine. He was so unimaginably fired anyway.

Now, I was the one at the head of the table. How much of this had to do with Blacky at my right side and the ninetales at my left was debatable. My guess was a lot.

As I had expected, most of them wanted to know how I did it. As do you, my dear interviewer. So I'll tell you, just like I told them.

I always did want to do my own parlour scene.

(=0=)

"The first thing you have to understand is that I don't go into anything half-cocked. There's always prep work to do beforehand."

"What sparked this off was Gozen's letter. I'd never heard of the kid before, or this Rite, so naturally I was suspicious. I asked to meet and he agreed."

"Now, if you ever meet Red and ask him about me, he'll probably tell you: one of the worst possible things you can do with me is lie to my face."

"First of all, it won't work, because I'm better at it than you. Secondly, it'll tell me what you want me to believe, which will lead me to what you want, which tells me how to deny you what you want, and honestly, if you're going to try and screw me you could at least make destroying your plans more of an effort. Half-assedness _offends_ me twice as much in my enemies as it does in my friends."

"One thing I knew as soon as I started talking to Gozen was that he was playing me. I couldn't understand what he was after trying to get me to participate in the Rite. Plenty of noble heirs completed it each year, Aya _told_ me so."

"I guess you might say it _smelled funny_. Geddit? It's funny because I smeared poo on myself later."

"So I looked him up. Turns out his older brother was the famous Samurai Gozen, that rising star of the Imperial party. He's actually a candidate for the Grand Finals this year. Which explains why sent his freaking little brother to _kill me_."

"Turns out, there's a hidden service you can pay for with the Rite, if you've got the cash. A one-time payment assassination, sent your political enemies in, get one culprit-free murder back. You can also put up money against it, but of course no one there was going to do that for me."

"I hope the irony of them paying Lady Wakahisa, who's been the fox the whole time, to have the fox eat their kids doesn't escape you."

"I mean, even I think that's a pretty dirty deal. And mind you, this is coming from a guy who got naked and covered himself in pig crap."

"Anyway, it's not like they were eager to let me know about that little detail. But once I offered to let the ninetales start chewing on them if they didn't start squealing, it suddenly became a whole lot more dishonorable to stay silent than let your tongue wag."

"I chopped off Gozen's shitty little topknot and sent him home, and _man_, let me tell you, you could have have covered three of me with the dookie he dropped in his shorts. You can tell _Samurai Gozen_ that he's lucky I didn't send his head, and that he's welcome to try his own hand if he's not too busy having Jasmine or his _imouto_ fight his battles for him."

"But how did I figure out that Lady Wakahisa was actually the fox, and where she was? Well, I'd love to take credit, but I had help."

"As it happens, ever since the fox had killed Lord Wakahisa and secretly taken over the Wakahisa Clan - yeah, there's that bombshell as gently as I can put it - it had been ritualistically replacing each female heiress once they'd produced another heiress and locking the remaining ones away. It all fit into the oaths, you see? The fox couldn't physically hurt them. But it could use its powers to alter everything the servants saw and heard, so they believed they were obeying the orders of the Lady Wakahisa to imprison some random lowlives in the dungeon. And all the while the new female heiress lived her life in anticipatory hell, perpetuating the fox's facade, until it was her turn to be replaced."

"Well, enter one heiress who decided she wasn't going to take it anymore. One might even say she'd _had enough of that shit_. Ha! Yokoko, that conniving, sneaky bitch."

"She'd been looking for someone who could finally capture the fox, and I was it. She'd studied the Rite her entire life, and knew exactly how much she needed to tell me to allow me to succeed."

"First, her loyal servant in the baths told me to ask directly after the oaths. That way, the fox was both bound by his oath 'to speak to inquisitors of its oaths in full' and its oath to 'give no word that is false'. That way, I got the full version of the oaths, and the exact wording. No _bullshit_, as it were."

"Next, Yokoko made sure a note was slipped into my new robe, ensuring I knew I was already trapped in an illusion. How could that be, you might ask, when the fox had to stay within the bounds of the shrine grounds?"

"I'll tell you. You remember how the Lady Wakahisa gave the measurements of the oath-outlined shrine grounds in Imperial _shaku_, then described the forest behind the castle in miles?"

"That was because the original boundaries of the shrine grounds _included_ the castle. The fox, as the Lady Wakahisa, had contracted the castle, and slowly the old boundaries of the shrine grounds were forgotten for the new. So, you see, there was never any chance any of the Rite participants would ever find the fox in the forest. Because it was _never there _to catch. They would chase the illusory copies of the fox till dawn and return disappointed. Or, alternatively, they'd get killed by the fox come 'next morning's prayer', which was always much earlier than they'd expect."

"On the way down to the forest, Yokoko told me the actual measurement of a mile in _shaku_. Then she told me she'd be leaving Blacky out of her ball to 'stretch her legs'."

"All of it was Yokoko's plan. The fox had to believe that everything was going as usual. Because, you see, if we were found out, I would still be killed, because the fox would just hide till the morning prayer came and kill me while I was blind and deaf. I can't imagine what would happen to Yokoko after that."

"So after I figured all that out, until the very last moment, I pretended to be trapped. Then, after covering myself in some emboar droppings I found to mask my scent, Blacky popped in and pulled me out right before I got swallowed by one of the ninetales' flamethrowers, putting me down right behind the Lady Wakahisa, where I skunked her and Gozen while flashing half of Imperial high society."

"I guess you can say...I got down and dirty."

"...heh."

(=0=)

The interview ends with a few closers. 'Where are you going from here? Bugsy's Gym', 'Any girls in your life? How's your mother doing these days?', etc., etc.. The ninetales banters like I'd told him to before the interview began, the music plays, and I pop my mic off, walking offstage.

The door to my makeup room barely closes before the fox rumbles, manipulating sound to create speech.

"I am not your plaything, _ape_."

I pause uncapping my water bottle, before setting it down, sighing. Despite the fact that I knew that the deep, male, _human_ voice the fox was using was just a result of it manipulating sound using illusion, it was still unsettling to hear.

"Tell me your name." I order it.

"Tenchouchikyuu-no-oomikami."

"Too long. Your name is now Chocho. Do you like that? Say yes, Chocho."

The fox snarls, baring his fangs hatefully. Nearby, on the mirror stand, Blacky shifts, eyeing the first new member of our team.

"_Yes_."

I glare right back at him. "Do you like it when I order you around and treat you like shit? Because that's the relationship we can have if you want to let your ego get in the way."

"You told the _traitor_ that you would pass _ownership_ of me over to her keeping once your goals were met if she supported you." The ninetales snaps, pacing the room. His tails flicker, nearly knocking over my coat rack. "I heard so. You cannot hide your double dealings from me."

I raise one eyebrow. "Yes, of course." I drawl sarcastically. "Because, like you, am bound by a soul contract with long-dead ghost to always speak the truth."

Tenchouchikyuu-no-oomikami's tails stop swishing so fiercely, and the fox fixes me with a level gaze.

"...you are saying you lied." He enunciates slowly.

"I'm _saying_ that there's two ways this plays out." I inform him flatly. "One where you continue to be a moody sonuvabitch, I have to order you to do everything, and when I do become the Champion - because I _will_ - I do exactly as I told Yokoko I would and transfer mastery of your pokeball over to her. The nightmare you spent over a century pretending to be a _female human_ to avoid comes true, and you become the slave of the Wakahisa Clan, just like wily old Lord Wakahisa planned, way back when."

The ninetales is silent, staring slit-eyed holes through me.

"Well," I amend. "Not that wily, I guess. If he was _really_ that smart he would have allowed the possibility for a woman to control you, preventing the whole 'female descendants are subjugated as punishment for his hubris for untold generations' thing that you had going on. Gotta love the Imperial patriarchy."

"Your point?"

I chug my water bottle and cap it. "The other way this plays out is that you consider the fact that I could be much more of a dick to you and I'm not. And maybe you start wondering, maybe this human isn't trying to enslave you because he knows that you're the most able when you're willing, and I want you to _be_ willing."

The ninetales' lips rise, baring his teeth. "You have nothing you can offer me, human. Whether you die or you pass me back, I am bound for eternity to the land and blood of that accursed clan."

"Really?" I ask softly. "Are you sure? Because you're talking to someone who, if they become Champion, will have the power to seize lands and abolish titles like those of the Wakahisa Clan. I wonder, will those oaths to property and bloodline hold when neither exist?"

"Promises of future rewards yet earned, indicative of nothing." The ninetales scoffs, after a short pause.

I nod thoughtfully. "I suppose that's a fair enough assessment. And besides, if I die before that, or Yokoko rescinds the favor of her clan, you return to the situation you were in. So how about this - _Tenchouchikyuu-no-oomikami, he who is the fox, I formally grant you leave to sire heirs and keep counsel with other monsters_."

The ninetales rears back in surprise - probably because I say the last part in Imperial. I watch in interest as one of the fox's nine tails suddenly spazzes out, wagging madly to and fro.

"I guess that worked, huh? I just nullified that entire oath. Consider it a down payment." The fox settles slowly, now considering me in an entirely different light. "I'm sure I don't have to spell out the only two ways that can be taken back."

"You rescind leave...or you pass ownership to the female and she does." The fox says slowly.

I spread my hands, grinning. "That's right. If I die or Yokoko rescinds her favor, you don't become hers; you just return to the same situation you were in, minus that one oath. And if there's nothing you can do to say, _improve_ your situation with your newfound ability to connive with other pokemon-"

I throw my hands up in air and turn my back. "-then I'm really not sure who I'm talking to. Because I thought I was talking to _Wakahisa's Bane_, who was able to see through the best laid contracts of ten minds and find the loopholes that allowed him to live like a king and dominate those who bound him for decades upon decades."

My new pokemon says nothing.

I turn back, and give him my most criminal smile. "You want the truth? I can replace Yokoko. I can't replace _that_, and-okay, seriously, is your tail all right there?"

The spasming tail is now seemingly trying to beat its way through the floor, slamming on objects all around. The other tails are moving a little squirrelly too, shivering fitfully.

The ninetales turns, and seems to notice for the first time. When he speaks, it is in a voice of deep satisfaction. "That one is Yoshitsune, whose oath you just nullfied. He is greatly upset." The schizoid tail falls limp suddenly, before returning to stillness. "The others are Katashi, Matsuyori, Takehiro, Shichiro, Yasuo, Tokiyuki, Akisame and Yasayoki. They cower, out of fear that you will defeat their own oaths, and loose me on the world unbound."

"Um." I say eloquently, not sure how to react to the fact that my newest team member apparently has literal human souls growing out of his ass.

"I wonder," Tenchouchikyuu-no-oomikami continues, tone now hard to decipher, "of the fact that they consider it possible, and you capable of it. That is..._interesting_."

The tails all shudder and fall still. I resist the unusual urge to gulp.

Thankfully, Yokoko chooses that moment to burst in, opening the door to the room without so much as knocking. In one hand she carries a smart phone, and the other, a hotdog loaded down with toppings. Her outfit - a riot of bracelets and jewelry and fishnets and buckles - is eclectic to say the least.

I take a moment to marvel at the fact that she's the first member of her family since the Neo-Dark ages to walk outside the Wakahisa Clan lands. Belatedly, I realize that all the new foods and clothes she's trying are probably her effort to make up eighteen years of lost time acting like the perfect heiress under the ninetales' reign of terror, and appreciate it accordingly.

Mainly, I appreciate how nice her tits look in that skimpy halter top.

_Those are the first Wakahisa Clan tits to be seen outside the grounds since the Neo-Dark ages. That's history in the making, that is._

And you have to appreciate history.

She acknowledges her tormenter with a glance and a sneer. "Murderer."

_I guess she hasn't forgotten the fact that her mother survived the castle dungeons and her grandmother didn't._

"Treacherous sow." The ninetales snarls back. Amiable for him.

My new manager turns to me and follows my gaze. "Ugh." She mutters.

I suppose 'Ugh' is me. Tearing away my gaze from her bountiful _historical artifacts_, I address her. "Yes?"

"I scheduled Misty and Bugsy. Also, Himura-sama is on the phone. Someone tipped her off because she's got a copy of the transcript. She's not happy."

I take the phone from her hand and sneak a glance at the fox. The ninetales stares levelly back, revealing nothing.

"Well," I reply flippantly. "if she's upset about the Imperial death ritual I revealed painting the Imperial Party in a bad light, then maybe they should have done something about it in the hundreds of years it was going on. Like, say, not _have _Imperial death rituals."

Yokoko nods distractedly, wiping a bit of relish off her chin. "The anonymous tip she got was from me. This way, she'll be suppressing every news source just in case the Gozen were trying to go to the media before we did. It should prevent word of the _kitsune's_ capture from getting out until you pull it out during Misty's match."

_Devious._ "Good work." I admit, before raising the phone to my ear to begin my end of this scheme - damage control.

I can't be sure if I've got the fox's loyalty yet. But at the very least, Tenchouchikyuu-no-oomikami is on the team.

...I'm really going to have to find a shorter nickname.

(=0=)

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry # 038 ( J. #128 ): Ninetales._

_Basic Characteristics: Pure fire-type, with access to many ghost-type abilities. Quadrupedal mammal, vulpine body structure, nine tails, fur coloration ranging from white to golden. Evolves from vulpix. Avg. height 3'07 (seated), avg. weight 43.9 lbs (warning, extremely small sample group)._

_Description: A pokemon of literally mythic rareness, the ninetales is highly present in Imperial mythology dating back even to pre-pokemon ages, making it notable as one of the few pokemon which supports the theory of unbroken evolution (see, unbroken evolution, staggered evolution). _

_Nicknames: The Fox Pokemon, Kiri of Ten-Thousand Scales, Wakahisa's Bane, kyuubi no kitsune._

_"...rket reflects a surprising change. While the WCB lifecycle funds did take a hard hit, with investors pulling out in the wake of the news that the one managing their money was a NINETALES of all things, a resurgence in confidence has occurred in the wake of a interview by the Lady Wakahisa Yokoko, the new, verifiably human president of the brokerage, given after Gary Oak's startling defeat of Misty. 'Despite custody of the fox passing temporarily to PKMN Trainer Blue, honorable clients of my Clan can rest assured that the consistent growth they have always been promised and subsequently received will not change. The ninetales has taken up a new secondary occupation as a pokebattler and has ceded leadership to me, but will continue to buy and sell stocks with the same_ literally _centuries-old economic__ wisdom and insight that customers have come to expect, a claim no other firm can boast.' In light of this..."_

(=0=)

Samurai Gozen: The stoic eldest son of the Gozen clan, 'Samurai' Gozen Mitsuhide is a famous dec-thirteen pokebattler and second-ring champion. Recently, his betrothal to Leader Janine, daughter of Koga, has been greatly spoken of in the Indigo news. Some see the joining of the two most powerful Imperial clans as a herald for a new Empire.

Kiri of Ten-Thousand Scales: The third national treasure of the Indigo League is a female ninetales who goes by Kiri of Ten-Thousand Scales, who has been the personal companion and tutor of the Indigo League Composer Laureate since the founding of the position. She holds a concert and art gala for charity each year to fulfill the promise she made to nine different artists with terminal diseases that their work would be remembered. She's also the flagship pokemon of the Imperial party, and a well-loved radio personality. For whatever reason, her consistent offers to thank the Wakahisa Clan for their constant funding and support with a personal performance have always been declined.


	12. 9: The Shield and Star

**Disclaimer** : I do not own Pokemon, or any of its affiliated companies including, but not limited to, 4Kids, The Pokemon Company, Game Freaks, or Cartoon Network. The characters written within this fic are soley based upon the fictional characters created by these companies, and the story is not meant to, nor will it, receive any monetary funding.

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The Game of Champions

Chapter Nine

The Shield and Star

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_"There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth."_

_-Lord Byron, pre-pokemon satirist_

(=0=)|l|i|k|e|n|o|o|n|e|e|v|e|r|w|a|s|(=0=)

The interrogation room is sweltering. A consequence of being underground, with no exploitable vents or windows.

_Comfort traded for security_. Lt. Surge reminds himself for the nth time, tugging the collar of his BDU blouse away from his neck. It's little use. No doubt he will sweat right through the absorbent cloth by the time things are through.

Neither Red nor his partner exhibit any signs of discomfort; the Hero of the Bloody Bay tries and fails to find a single droplet of sweat on him or her.

But then, they are a similar sort of strange.

He finds their prisoner staring at him intently with his too-knowing red eyes, and the lieutenant has to force his hand from jinking under the table, towards his pocket.

_Easy, soldier!_ The general's voice barks unexpectedly in his mind. _Not too soon, now! Wahaha!_

His fist clenches instead, hatred swelling up his throat as his mind conjures images of screaming comrades and a dark, familiar tide. For a moment, Lt. Surge is gone from the room.

Wattson's life will be his one day. He's been _promised_ this.

With mechanical will, he banishes the spectres of his bitterly-won accolades, and takes the prisoner's cue.

"I remember." He admits, and orders, with rehearsed cadence, "Continue."

Speaking makes the heat less stifling...but does nothing to ease the crushing, spherical weight in his pocket.

The weight of a thing that Giovanni Vittore does not know is in the room.

(=0=)

_The battlefield was constantly shifting. I could feel and hear the blocks and panels shifting as I ran, panting, through the stage-maze the Vermillion Gym computer had randomized._

_Pikachu kept up easily beside me, a much more physical creature, but I could tell this battle was wearing on even him._

_We were being hunted._

_A bolt of electricity zinged by me, missing by a breath, and I put on an extra burst of speed. I could hear boots slapping behind me._

_Somehow, the leader was tracking my movements. I'd been followed perfectly through too many forks and rooms for it to be coincidence._

_Pikachu squealed as an errant strike hit him, only managing to partially ground the attack. I heard, rather than saw, him return fire. There was no answering cry._

_There would be none. The lieutenant's raichu, Blitz, made up in power what he lost in agility. In a straight dust-up, he would thrash Pikachu. Worst of all, he knew so._

_We kept running._

_The SOSEFS was designed to be endless. Even as I moved, the operating system of the Gym was robotically shifting the blocks and panels - made of some hard, non-conductive material - ahead of us, creating new paths and rooms, sometimes even while you occupied them. One person maze paths, rooms with waist high cover, wider landscapes that required scaling; it could and did create them all. Meanwhile, a larger conveyer moved the materials as a whole around the large empty space it was staged in, explaining the minor vertigo I felt every few seconds as the system compensated for how fast we were moving._

_It was the perfect battlefield trainer - one that could simulate almost any land environment that one might have to fight on._

_SOSEFS stood for Special Operations Simulated Environment Firefight System._

_The soldiers I'd talked to called it Shit Oh Shit Everyone's Fucking Screwed._

_I had to admit it now. I'd finally come into a Gym too half-cocked._

_I turned a corner, not paying enough attention, and my stomach rose straight into my throat as I stood nearly nose to nose with cold plastic and light panel. I'd finally hit a dead end._

_I knew I'd find the Gym Leader behind me when I turned, but I turned nonetheless, and spoke the words I'd hoped I never would._

(=0=)

It was my first loss.

Sitting in a seaside cafe, I was surprised at how disappointed I was. I'd never realistically expected to make it the entire run of the Kanto circuit without a single loss. This was only a minor setback, yet I was still stunned at how completely I had been stopped.

It wasn't rocket science how I had lost. In every field - strategy, power, field command - Lt. Surge had completely outclassed me.

Picking listlessly at my meal, I let my gaze drift blankly over my surroundings.

Vermillion was a military city, having grown organically around the Kanto Marine Headquarters, back before Kanto and Johto were even unified into the Indigo League. Needless to say, it had been a long time since then, and what had once been merely a settlement grown to support the troops' needs had expanded into a city in its own right.

The benefits of living in the heart of Indigo military power were apparent everywhere one looked. The streets were clean and well cobbled, and even the air of the city seemed cleaner than normal, fresh and alive with the smell of brine.

And, despite obviously having no way to observe it, I would be willing to bet that crime was lower here than in any other city in Indigo, given that you couldn't walk down a street without passing several rangers or sailors in uniform, much like Sootopolis City, Hoenn's answer to Vermillion.

The military heritage of Vermillion was especially evident today. Today was a parade day for all the military graduates, which happened every few months or so. I watched bemusedly as the newly minted rangers and sailors marched broadly along the boardwalk in full dress uniform, all to the sound of their hysterically proud families, their formations led by their broad-hatted drill instructors.

It might have passed quickly but for their partners - the new soldiers marched side by side with the pokemon they would serve with, the same they had trained with those long months of boot camp. You could tell their jobs by their companions. Maintenance and dock workers marching alongside poliwags and machops already starting to bulk up. Security forces and rangers with growlithes and houndours. Divers with shellder and seels. Various others.

Of course, the aces of the fleet headed up the rear. Even I craned my neck as the gyrados riders made their way down the street, their draconian companions throwing up enthusiastic roars to the more than reciprocal crowd. The trainers, the top graduates of their respective classes, stared straight ahead, light glinting off of their ensign bars.

I stared in no small amount of curiosity, ignoring Pikachu as he stuck his head in my parfait. Of course I stared. The military had always been my second choice if being a trainer had somehow not worked out, and it wasn't as if I would have settled for less than best had I gone there.

In another life, one of the soldiers atop those great wyrms might have been me.

_So what's wrong with me?_ My mind tugged me back, like a chain, to my loss a week prior. _Why can't I see the path to victory?_

The Vermillion Gym didn't give away badges to just anyone. The courses for _learning_ your way to a badge involved a wide curriculum of topics from military history to electrical engineering. On top of that, students of the Gym were required to maintain high physical standards, near on par with military ones. It took some trainers years to meet the Gym's standards.

I didn't have years. I didn't even have months. So, of course, I took the second option, which was much simpler.

Like other gyms, all you had to do was beat the Leader.

_Unlike_ other gyms, the Leader was the most decorated soldier and special operator in Indigo League military trainer history.

There was a reason most people chose the first way. _That_ I had learned in excruciating detail.

My pokedex pinged, and I looked down, finding a new email. The address bar of the sender was curiously blacked out.

_TR headhunting military trainers in area. Keep an eye out for me?_

_-g_

Idly, I gave a thought to what the past me might think of myself growing up to be an ACE informant. Doubtless ACE's resources were what had allowed her to track my location.

I dismissed it almost as quickly. Green was a friend. And considering how I had recently discovered Team Rocket to be a criminal organization, I certainly didn't mind keeping an ear to the ground if they really were recruiting in Vermillion. I replied as much in a short email back.

I had no idea it would lead me where it would.

To a hero and traitor both.

(=0=)

I had exactly no training in espionage or detective work, or even much in-depth knowledge of the military, so after an hour musing over where I myself would recruit new Team Rocket operatives if I were a gainfully employed criminal syndicate member, I decided simply to wander and see if I ran into anything useful.

I'd only promised to keep an eye out, after all.

The city was still lively as the sun began to set. The tourism industry was alive all year round, but especially so today, probably more so than any other time than the Championships. Families from all over the Indigo League had come to celebrate their men and women becoming soldiers, and every one of them was looking to catch up and have a good time.

I could always hit a club and see if anyone's ears perked up at the sound of Team Rocket's name, but I was unlikely to get anything worthwhile from a bunch of privates and seamen just looking to get drunk and laid - not that I begrudged them that, of course.

I consigned myself to a long night of not finding anything remotely related to Team Rocket. Which was fine, of course. I had my own issues to worry about.

How to defeat the _mighty_ Lt. Surge?

I hadn't come into the match completely blind, of course. I studied your history, most of it being public record due to your fame.

Military family, born in Vermillion. Commissioned right out of the same Gym you'd later come to run - double military degrees. Unconventional warfare and _psychological operations_.

Which explains why they brought you on for this interrogation, of course.

The rest is common knowledge among military circles. Assigned to the 26th Special Tactics Squadron, where most of the major military leaders in the last century have held some position. Rose to XO inside three years during the Indigo-Hoenn War. Every accolade possible lauded upon you, and for good reason.

And then, of course, the battle - and betrayal - which made your legend.

Wattson's 'failed coup'. The Bloody Bay.

Hard to believe that I'm sitting in this room with you now. There was a time when I looked up to you.

...

Vermillion Gym Leader Lt. Surge outclassed me in experience, power and skill, and none of the battlefield could be used to my advantage. And all his history told me was that all evidence pointed to the Lightning American being just as good as hearsay claimed.

And he'd proved it. The sinking feeling of dread I'd gotten when he'd come to me before the match personally and introduced himself had turned out to be vindicated when he'd thrashed me up and down his arena.

_"PKMN Trainer Red? I've heard of you. My name is Lieutenant Robert Surge. Let's have a good match."_

In terms of planning, he was a fortress. The only thing to do was to throw everything I could at the weakest point.

The only problem being, he had no weak points I could discern. If they existed, he was aware enough of them to conceal them.

I'd finally hit my first big wall. Neither cleverness nor luck would avail me.

I was pulled out of my brooding by the sound of raised voices on the edge of my situational awareness.

With almost a start, I realized that I had walked the day away. The light was already dipping below the edge of the wavering horizon, beckoning in the twilight. The boardwalk lights were slowly being lit by hand, beach workers moving from glass lantern to lantern, blazing torches in hand.

_The power shortage in Saffron_. I puzzled out after a brief moment. I dimly recalled a news blurb I heard somewhere - Vermillion, Celadon, Cerulean and Lavender had all pledged support to Kanto's quasi-capital city in its time of need. The nonessential voltorb and electrode circuits had probably been relocated.

There were plenty of raised voices, of course, in the increasing darkness. But I recognized an edge to these absent in other volumes.

Violence.

I turned to hiss a short warning to Pikachu, but he was already on guard, hair on his back rising. Satisfied, I squinted into the darkness, seeing dark shapes on the beach in the distance, illuminated by a small fire. I waited patiently, allowing my eyes to adjust slightly.

A small crowd of humans and pokemon. Figures grappling in a short circle. Straining my ears to their limit, I could just barely hear the clink of bottles.

Using what ill-developed experience I had interacting with other people my age, I took a short detour to a grocer's before approaching.

As I approached the beach circle, the darkness fled as my eyes adjusted to the illumination of the campfire.

There weren't as many people as I thought - only five, two men and two women, all in rumpled dress uniforms. I could see bars on all of their collars.

Hooting and hollering, they were egging on a larger fourth man in the center of a circle in the sand, who was locked tightly together with a pokemon, who received my fullest attention as a matter of course.

It was shorter by a head and change than the human it was wrestling, but much broader and wider. Mottled grey-blue leather dominated the skin that was exposed, most of it being covered by the broad, hard shell that dominated its form, as large as a dining table. Its head was a squashed, round thing, with a sharp beaked mouth and tall, feathered crests growing from above its concave ear membranes - a socio-evolutionary trait which I knew denoted leadership and the possibility for future evolution, as well as allowing further directional control underwater. A feathered tail with a similar purpose extended from the underside of the shell.

Wartortle, I recalled.

There were more pokemon than just it present. On the other side of the circle, there was an entire bale of squirtles fussing around, roughhousing with each other, some watching the match with interest. A machop was engaged with a few of them, mock wrestling just as the two in the circle were. Closer to the humans, I spied a closed shellder. A spiny, female nidoran was sleeping on top, and both were clearly bored with the whole affair

As I watched, the ensign locked with the wartortle - a swarthy, muscle-bound monster in his own right, even compared to the other soldiers present - gave a mighty heave, rolling himself backwards and, placing his feet on the softer underbelly of the turtle pokemon, catapulted his opponent out of the drawn circle.

His fellow ensigns, whose voices had been steadily rising, exploded into laughter and crowded in, slapping their exhausted friend as he lay, panting in the sand. The squirtles, meanwhile, erupted in chirps and burbling, swarming the downed wartortle as they helped him roll back onto his feet.

I managed to catch the attention of one of the graduates as they helped their friend up, which soon became all of them. They stared at me a bit awkwardly, seeming a bit apprehensive at having been caught so devoid of military bearing.

I hefted the twelve-pack of Celadon Stout I had bought, and asked if there was room for one more.

That apparently broke the ice, and I soon became introduced to all of them.

The two men outside the circles were Huey and Leonard.

"Just because we aren't rocking gyarados doesn't mean we aren't honor grads." They assured me, which their grades backed up. The sleeping shellder was Leonard's partner, marking him as a combat diver, while Huey's, a staryu, was apparently out in the surf, doing a little night swimming, marking him as a ship signalman. Both of them were still in training.

"Just because they're honor grads doesn't mean they're both not jackasses." One of the girls assured me. I noticed her leaning into the shirtless wrestling ensign and instantly intuited that they were together in some way.

_So fast after graduation?_ But I suppose soldiers lived lives short and fast.

Her name was Ann. She was hospital tech with a specialization in anasthesia, which explained the nidoran, whose poisons had numbing qualities. She seemed impressed that I knew so before she mentioned it.

She was also reserve, so after a few more weeks of technical training she'd go back to civilian life, awaiting the call to return to active service.

Leonard grinned handsomely, placing a limp-wristed hand against his chest. "Tending house and home for Phillip, waiting anxiously for her beloved's return." He seemed like the funny man of the group. "I can just imagine it. _Ai_, Phillip, when will you return to my arms? Yowch!"

As a reward for his performance, Ann threw her empty bottle at him. "Shit in your hand, wetsuit boy."

"That's some bedside manner you've got there." Huey cracked quietly, causing Leonard to bust out laughing and Ann to round on him.

Ann's significant other introduced himself in the meantime, holding out a dark hand. Thankfully, he'd found his undershirt to put on in the meantime. "It's Filipe, actually." He said, mild for his size. There was an understated solidness to the man, like he could wade into a river and it would move around him. "Phillip is the Indigoan version."

I grasped it and put two and two together, hearing his name. He was a Sevii Islander.

Filipe merely nodded. "A lot of my people take the military route to getting Indigo citizenship. Those who aren't too bitter, anyhow."

"Filipe almost placed for gyarados. They didn't have much public schooling on his island, so he had to work twice as hard as the rest of us to catch up scholastically." Ann piped up suddenly, sounding defensive. "He's come a long way and earned everything he's achieved."

The large man, looking faintly embarrassed, placed a hand on her shoulder. "_Querida._" He said, faintly admonishing.

I understood. The Sevii Islands had been a contentious issue ever since they had made contact. Since the Indigo League had so much more land and population than them, the impoverished archipelago, much attacked by large sea pokemon, was largely dependant on Indigo for most modern services, and yet didn't pay taxes as citizens in Indigo did. This made them a financial drain that was either worth it or not, which was about as far into politics as I was willing to venture.

In made sense that some would potentially see Sevii Islanders as welfare thieves or illegal aliens, I supposed, which was likely the sort of thing that Ann had become so defensive about.

I didn't really take a side on the issue, myself. As I said, politics were never my thing.

I'd never met a Sevii Islander before, so I'd never formed an opinion on one. Saying so seemed to be the right answer, and Ann seemed to ease up a bit.

"Enough bullshitting." Said the last girl. "Remember the rules? He's a new guy. "

She sat off to the side, a rattata moving animatedly around her. She was even duskier than Filipe, with inviting dark eyes and an understated accent - Orrean, if I wasn't mistaken, which made her even more foreign than the large Islander, and certainly explained her complexion, which extended to every inch of her skin I cared to inspect.

Huey and Leonard both hooted, the latter caring to fill me in. "That's right! Listen up Red; this here is Squirtle Sumo, hosted by Vermillion's own Squirtle Squad, and the rule is - if it's your first time here, you _have_ to wrestle. Get in the circle!"

Her rattata made her a wayfinder, a ranger who specialized in charting new territory; a rather dangerous job, and one I respected - I couldn't think of many more worthy causes than that of exploration.

I hadn't yet caught her name, though.

Her alluring smile widened. "It's Dawn. Now lose the shirt."

All of their group laughed at that, with me following a second behind them. I shrugged out of my kit, not having much to be ashamed of. _Why not?_

Stepping up to the wartortle, I abruptly realized that it definitely wasn't short - Filipe was just exceptionally tall. The pokemon stood almost eye to eye with me, staring at me levelly. It looked none the worse for having been flung earlier.

"Go!" Someone said, and we both seized each other.

I was immediately overpowered as the wartortle pushed his superior weight and strength onto me. Swearing, I took a knee and reversed my push into a pull, winching into the wartortle's armpit as I made to fling him.

The wartortle, recognizing the move, went with the momentum and flipped over my shoulder onto its shell, rolling instantly back to his feet to charge back at me.

Panicked, I made the mistake of standing too far back up, allowing the wartortle to get under my center of gravity. With a triumphant squark, he hooked under me and lifted me bodily off the ground.

Realizing I was seconds from becoming a projectile, I brought my legs in and under me, pincering onto the wartortle's head.

Unfortunately, human-on-human tactics weren't designed for pokemon anatomies. With his neck mostly protected by his shell, the wartortle made a poor target for a headlock.

With a heave of effort, my legs slipped off the turtle pokemon's smooth skin. The next thing I knew, the sky and ground had traded places, my stomach flip-flopped, and I hit the sand in a heap, the breath driven straight out of my lungs.

Groaning, I picked myself out of the sand, expecting jeers and the squeaks of bombastic squirtles. Only, I didn't hear anything but the crackling of the fire. It took me a few seconds of dizzy reorientation before I abruptly realized how strange that was. I frowned and looked up.

And froze.

Lt. Surge stared back at me levelly, clad in full service-dress, hands in his pockets. Off to the side, the graduates were all standing awkwardly at attention, with the exception of Filipe, whose shirt was being rapidly buttoned up by Ann.

My mind worked furiously as I tried to remember some audible cue, some background noise that had signalled his approach, before resigning itself. If there had been, I'd missed it, too caught up in the bout. The Gym Leader had snuck up completely unnoticed.

Gathering myself up, I slapped damp sand off of my bare chest and looked him straight in the eyes back, determined not to be cowed.

After a pause just barely short of awkward, he tilted his head and gave me a brief once-over. "Legacies of a misspent youth?" He asked, voice mild.

I suppose he was talking about my respectable collection of scars. I glanced down at myself, cataloguing them for the first time in a while. They ranged in size. The smallest currently visible was a tiny pock-mark on my abdomen, while the largest was a blotchy burn that looped over my right shoulder and went down my back like a rope. Funnily enough, the severity of those two was actually inversely proportionate - the burn had just been steam from an over-affectionate camerupt, while the puncture scar had been from a sandslash that hadn't liked the way I handled her young. I had been laid up for a week and a half off that second one.

Surge's weren't the only eyes on me that I felt, and I forced myself to shrug casually. Youth? Certainly. But none of the scars I'd earned on the Professor's ranch would I call _misspent_.

They were medals of honor, not unlike his, at least in nature, if not in scale.

Unbidden, every human eye leapt to the lieutenant's throat, where the object in question hung, apart from his other medals.

The Shield and Star. The highest decoration a soldier could be awarded in the Indigo League. The other regions had similar medals, but their annals were somewhat less distinguished, given how many of the recipients were still alive. The Shield and Star was a honor above honors, only given in cases where one's personal act of valor went both beyond the call of duty _and_ what was thought possible to do. Entire conflicts had been fought without one being awarded, and it was open to both men _and_ pokemon. More by what it required than by any specific prerequisite, it had always been awarded posthumously.

Until the Bloody Bay. When General Wattson, the then commander of the 26th SOS convinced over half of his squadron to defect with him to the side of Hoenn in the middle of the war, hijacking the flagship destroyer of the fleet - powerful enough to turn the tide of the war - and cutting a swath out of the Vermillion Bay with the power of some of the strongest trainers in the Indigo military.

It had taken his XO, pretending to go along with the coup till the last possible moment, to stop him, turning on slaughtering to near a man the very same men and women he'd presided over till they turned traitor. A single junior officer, who'd never forgotten his allegiance even when his mentor did.

Until Lt. Surge. The man who'd very possibly saved our country. It was only after he'd defeated his traitor squadmates that the loyal 26th members, legends like Red Musashi and Callsign K had shown up to bolster him. Wattson had barely escaped with his life that day.

The living legend considered what I'd said, and shrugged minimally. "A fair comparison." He allowed. Glancing over at the nervous ensigns, the leader added in a wry voice. "At ease. I didn't come here to light anybody up, and I don't actually outrank you by that much."

His pay grade was hardly the point, obviously. I'm sure there were those that even outranked him that probably paid the Gym Leader due deference.

"You're not wrong." Lt. Surge admitted dryly, as the graduates visibly sagged with relief, shooting each other glances. "Unfortunately, 'Lieutenant' is too integral to my brand name now. I could tame the Moltres and I still wouldn't get promoted. Rank has it's privileges _my ass_. At least being a Gym Leader nets me special duty pay - _barely_."

That broke the tension somewhat, as the ensigns broke up laughing. I didn't see the humor, but I supposed it was probably a military thing. Or maybe it was just having a figure of such high command be so down to earth with them.

After a second, the laughter died down. An awkward silence ensued - the ensigns too star struck to speak themselves, myself too busy trying to discern his motives. Lt. Surge for his part was inscrutable, seeming content to survey us, weighing.

His eyes settled on the largest of us. "Filipe de Natal. I've heard of you."

The Sevii Islander started nervously, before rumbling. "Sir."

"I know your name. You're to be assigned to the 26th. I make it a point to know everyone who's assigned to in-process, for the same reasons you might expect." Lt. Surge extended his hand. "Of course, in your case, I should know. I asked for you."

The large man seized the lieutenant's hand and shook it firmly, his face caught between confusion and trepidation. "Sir?"

"Not many greenies get assigned to us. We're the best of the best. Maybe that was part of the problem, before. I chose you because of a specific reference in Sergeant Sowell's assessment. Personally, I know Sowell as the most spiteful, hateful and downright mean drill instructor I have ever met in my life. I wasn't sure she'd ever said or wrote a nice thing about anyone in her entire career until I read your file. She said you had 'exceptional and admirable moral character'. Having met her, I'm sure you understand that for her, that is damn near a love note. That's why I chose you."

Filipe's voice was thick with emotion. "Thank you, sir."

Lt. Surge's dropped the handshake and punched him straight in the arm, right where the squadron patch would be on a combat uniform. "I expect the same level of integrity from you when you make it to the 26th. I don't think I'll be disappointed."

The ensign, too overwrought at this point, merely nodded fervently, clenching his jaw tightly in an effort to keep his composure. Ann rubbed his back soothingly, smiling a small but radiant smile.

I felt almost obscene, watching such a display, as if I was some sort of peeper. It came off as impersonal, but obviously the Gym Leader's words had a deep and personal effect on Filipe. I wondered if this was the sort of bond I had missed out on when I chose to strike out on my own.

"Of course, that was only one of the reasons I came down here." Lt. Surge continued, after a brief pause. "The other was to run an errand for the local police." Turning slightly behind him, he addressed the darkness. "You'll have to stop malingering back there sooner or later, you know. Time to turtle up and face the music."

Slowly, the one he had been addressing became clear, as a dark blob I had originally written off became larger as it stepped into the light. It was another wartortle.

But no ordinary one. My eyes grew wide, and I stared.

His size was nothing to speak of, being shorter but wider than the other wartortle that I had been wrestling with. His visage was what stopped me short.

His skin was covered in scars. As my gaze traveled the length of him, I couldn't find four inches apart not covered in some mark. As he passed me to stand, seemingly apprehensive, in front of Lt. Surge, I saw his shell. It was completely unblemished.

The wartortle was a complete anomaly, one that nearly hurt my brain to think about. It wasn't that wartortles didn't get into fights often - on the contrary, wartortles were extremely aggressive, given that their final evolution was triggered and fed by intense conflict. It was the reason the blastoise was the staple and spearhead of the Indigoan destroyer.

It was that exact penchant for conflict, it was theorized, that gave them such a strong behavioral and evolutionary urge to defend using their shells. It was only good sense, besides; dreams of evolving meant nothing if you didn't survive to realize them, and a wartortle's skin and underbelly weren't that much tougher than even human skin.

How, then, was this impossibility of evolution standing in front of me? A wartortle, who'd obviously never once turned his back?

The gang of squirtles, upon seeing him, immediately exploded into joyous chitters, surging around him. After a few seconds, they turned whining, clearly expecting some reaction that wasn't coming. One squirtle ran off, coming back with a pair of dark, extremely angular sunglasses, offering them up plaintively. The other wartortle, with whom I'd been wrestling, merely crossed his arms, glowering. The scarred wartortle ignored them all, staring into the night past.

"Big Brother got picked up at a sailor bar picking fights with machokes." Lt. Surge spoke in the same direction the scarred wartortle faced, his voice solemn. "At least he didn't involve the little ones this time, but any more of these incidents and I won't be able to protect him anymore. The sheriff was talking about putting him cold storage, Trident Lead."

Perplexed, I turned to where they were facing-

-and a terrible obelisk rose in the night, sand shifting. I bit off a startled curse, as Pikachu darted behind my legs. There was no hissing from him this time; only the silent, whisper thin feeling of him trembling against my calves.

I'd thought it was a boulder.

With the pneumatic hiss of steel on steel, the twin peaks rose along side the peak of the behemoth's head. The moonlight glinted on the head of each heavy cannon as the blastoise stepped into the light.

The scarred wartortle's defiant screech split the night like a knife. I turned to him, flabbergasted at his audacity.

The terrible war machine moved faster than it had any right to, barreling smoothly into the light, lifting the man-sized pokemon up above his head like a bundle of hay before slamming him to ground. The hollow slap of the wartortle's shell let all who listened know that no mercy had been spared in the blow.

Then, the blastoise crouched and _roared_.

That description is a bit of an understatement. There aren't any apt adjectives, so I'll try to explain it allegorically.

Any given person on the street has the physical capability to scream a threat. Saying 'I'll kill you' or something similar. Some will be able to yell it louder or softer than others.

It takes a certain quality to be able to make someone _believe_ it, make them _know_ you do it. That quality would outweigh any amount of volume or force. It was the origin of the saying that you could 'see it in their eyes'.

When Trident Lead dropped Big Brother into ground and roared his challenge, even those who it wasn't directed at could feel their guts clench. Feel their wills quail. The sound of the blastoise's cry invoked a visceral and primal knowledge, like a bad memory one would rather have surpressed-

-that this creature had taken life, bore no qualms about doing it again, and stood confident in his ability to execute said action.

As the blastoise turned, the marks of his history became apparent - his shell was wrent and gouged, with great uneven cracks running through the length of it, which shifted as he moved. My eyes widened. He was broke-backed.

It certainly explained why the alpha turtle was looking after a group of miscreant squirtles, instead of heading a battleship gunnery. That kind of medical disability probably wasn't tolerable in a military setting, and was probably what had discharged him.

"He's yours for now, Trident Lead." Lt. Surge continued blithely, ignoring the display. "But next time-"

All pretenses of his keeping cool vanished as the blastoise rounded on him, fixing him with an even more menacing glare than he had his subordinate. Surge took a few wise steps backward, as did every other person in the clearing, as Trident Lead began to growl. It sounded like he was gurgling on raw bones. The Gym Leader's raichu immediately leapt in front of his trainer, lines of electricity rippling down the rat's raised hackles.

As I was watching, an insight came to me, one I couldn't prove but my gut told me was right.

Before, with Big Brother, that had been a serious reprimand, meant to teach, or at the very least, scare. But this?

I couldn't back it up, but I knew, somehow I knew, with the same surety that rivers ran downhill and the sun rose - there was hate here. This was more than a simple whim or mood swing.

There was history between Lt. Surge and Trident Lead; bad blood of some sort. And whatever it was-

-it was enough to have Indigo's most intrepid soldier in retreat, hands raised. My curiosity instantly overrode my fear, going from nothing into overdrive in no seconds flat.

"Even now, lead gun? Still?" Lt. Surge asked, a melancholy expression on his face. The growling only increased in volume. Blitz braced himself, looking ready to start firing bolts at any second. I could feel, rather than see, Pikachu preparing himself similarly to defend us both.

The Gym Leader sighed then, dropping his hands.

"...I shouldn't be surprised. If you didn't accept it then, you wouldn't now. You…" The lieutenant's face turned slightly bitter. "If I'd known, it would have been different. You know that, right?"

Trident Lead took one step forward, and roared - not a warning, but a warcry. The squirtles scattered into motion, reforming behind him. Behind the blastoise, both wartortles took flanking positions.

Lt. Surge's conflicted face settled into a cold, military mask. "As you were, then, Trident Lead. We won't meet again. Enjoy the past you insist on dwelling in, and your band of jolly dropouts." He turned and began stalking off into the night, waving once over his shoulder. "Enjoy your night...and thank you for your service."

The air was tense as the war hero took his leave. I scooped a seashell out of the turf and hefted it thoughtfully as the Squirtle Squad and their leader gradually eased up.

I took a deep breath and underhanded it at Trident Lead.

It bounced off his meaty foreleg, barely making a sound. But it got an instant reaction, the blastoise whirling around and rooting me with a steady stare. As I stared into the veteran warrior's eyes, I knew instantly that this idea I hadn't been my brightest.

It wasn't that the great turtle was wroth - no, from looking, the only sign of his previous anger was the steam escaping his shell as his two hydro-cannons retracted. But I had underestimated his measure.

Standing under the blastoise's inspecting gaze felt like being blasted by a firehose. Every half-baked idea for questioning and manipulation fell away under the weight of it, stripped away like thin paint. I had thought to root out the source of the secret that had sent Lt. Surge in full retreat, but in pursuing such, I had attracted the attention of a being not only stronger but _smarter_ than me.

And I had attracted it _rudely_.

I swallowed heavily as the blastoise took one heavy step forward. The desperate urge to take my own step back rose up in a panic, and on snap-instinct I ruthlessly quashed it - Big Brother hadn't backed down, and something told me that whatever I'd get, I'd get twice as hard if I flinched. Instead, I fixed my feet and looked up at him, schooling my features.

Trident Lead wasn't angry. That much I could feel, the same way I was beginning to come to predict Pikachu's mercurial shifts in mood. Instead, I was reminded immediately of Shiryuu, the Professor's dragonite, the immense feeling of _experience_ that colored every interaction I'd had with him, as if I could hear the depth of his years behind every action he took.

But Shiryuu had never been much interested in me, where this creature _was_. I was instantly aware of the sense that he was reading me as much, and with more skill. I was a raw nerve; exposed, and so very vulnerable.

As I recalled the train of logic my thoughts had taken, an ugly flush rose up in my face. Craving wisdom from one so much my elder, and my first instinct had been _sleuth_? For the first time in a long time, I was utterly _embarrassed_.

All the while, Trident Lead stared down at me, impassive.

"Uh, Red." Leonard's voice broke the silence like a whismur being born, the joker of a soldier sounding uncharacteristically serious. "Man, maybe you wanna step over here?"

His suggestion filled my ears poisonously, and I waffled. _What if all of this is in my head?_ What if the entire exchange with the blastoise had existed entirely in my head, and I was merely extrapolating from a vacuum?

Common reason said it was the more likely. But…

My gut had driven me this far, through paths that would have been undreamed of by a more cautious boy from Pallet Town. I couldn't break trust with it now.

It was more than want. Trident Lead knew things I _needed_ to know, and I needed him to teach me, even if I didn't know what those things were at this point. He was my only lead after days of ruminating on how to press forward. But first, I needed to apologize.

Instead of stepping back, I stepped sideways, sketching a quick mime sign for apology as I stepped back into the circle. I didn't sense a reaction in the blastoise, so I took a fortifying breath and shooed Pikachu out of the circle.

Pikachu sent me a _look_, which encapsulated every ounce of his doubt in my plan, which he had no doubt sussed out. After an appropriate pause - which perfectly outlined how much he was washing his paws of my stupidity - my starter pokemon very primly padded his way out of the circle and took a seat, watching.

"Red, buddy-" Huey's voice was thick with forced cheer. "-you're kinda freakin' us out with all this silence. What're you-?"

Then, in another sign, this one universal, I clapped my hands once and beckoned Trident Lead into the circle. From the elder turtle, I sensed something new - surprise.

From the side, I heard Leonard, finally out of funny things to say. "Uh, well. Uh."

"...he can't be serious." Huey.

Ann snorted, voice thick with wryness. "Dawn, I owe you twenty idols."

"You do. I told you it was him." Dawn answered, out of sight, voice thick with something else. I ignored most of their exchange, dropping into a ready stance.

Instead, I looked at Filipe, and told him to slap me awake if I got knocked out. His dark eyebrows rose as Trident Lead stepped into the ring.

(=0=)

It was a painful week after that, working off the bruises from that encounter. Maybe if I'd taken it easy the night after, I would have healed faster-

-but after the blastoise had finished testing me, Dawn had volunteered to walk my beaten, much more sober self home. And then she'd elected not to leave. 'Restful activities' did not very well describe the rest of my night after that.

But it had worked. I'd won Trident Lead's attention. And that was how I still found myself on the beach, more than a week later, watching over the Squirtle Squad as they romped about.

Filipe plodded up with another cold, alcoholic something he'd gotten from one of the beachside stands.

He was the only one left in Vermillion after the week had passed, everyone else having been shot off to various other cities and Gyms to complete their technical training. Filipe, being a special operations candidate, fortuitously had his indoc training in the same place, and we'd fallen into a routine after running into each other a few more times.

It was comfortable, uncomplicated. In another life, I was sure that Filipe and I would have gotten along famously. However, we both knew that we'd be setting off in different directions sooner or later, so for the time we just enjoyed each other's company.

Gratefully, I accepted the drink, holding the cool glass against my spongier flesh.

"We heard about you a bit in basic, you know." Filipe offered, stretching out in a chair beside me, his rippling dark flesh drawing more than a few eyes. "It's how Dawn knew you. We were cut off from the outside world, so as a reward, whenever we were good, the drill instructors would feed us bits and pieces of news. You were news. Still are, a little bit"

I grunted, keeping a sure eye on the squirtles. Next to my left side, the massive, uneven form of Trident Lead sat, tucked inside his ruptured shell. I didn't believe for a second that he wasn't still watching me. I could still feel pulses of emotion, every now and then.

Pikachu was up, watching the squirtles with me. I'd had to nose him away from the more adult drinks Filipe had brought, and had offered the compromise of a oran berry confectionary, which he'd graciously accepted, before roasting it to half a crisp.

The squirtles - with Big Brother and Daikoku mixed in - were all mixed in together, tripping over each other as they chased a flutter of butterflies.

Nearby, Lola, the jynx I'd traded for all the way back in Cerulean, stood hard at work, maintaining the illusory flock, weaving new snow as her black, rubbery hands and bouncy hips twisted in arcane gestures. It had seemed cruel to leave her in her pokeball in such a vacation venue, and I'd also been curious to see if she had some hidden talent in battle - Lorelei's jynx, Morgana, came to mind, a literal enchantress of the Ice-type and a terror in her own element.

It wasn't to be, sadly. It wasn't that Lola lacked the skill, or the will - she was quite talented in her own right, and in the sparring match I'd put her up in against Daikoku, it wasn't pain she'd shied away from. What she lacked was killer instinct; all she had done was hide behind various illusory ice sculptures, reflecting light onto their forms to make them seem real, until Daikoku had finally encircled and caught her. She never went on the offensive.

Lola was an artist, not a fighter. In time, it was possible I could teach her the fighting mindset.

But time was not something I had enough of to gamble with.

"What are you looking for?" Filipe asked lazily, more to make conversation than anything else.

It wasn't that I was looking for anything, per say. The day afterwards, when I'd shown up on the beach, Trident Lead had sat me down in front of them, grumbled slightly and then promptly went half to sleep.

After that compelling introduction, it was as if a flip had been switched. Big Brother had gone from indifference to outright hostility, and every problem the squirtles encountered came directly to me. Trident Lead had put me in charge, to see how I would do.

A squirtle found a spoiled bottle of Moo-moo milk and wanted to drink it. Two squirtles got into a fight and one got too mean with the other, stepping on his tail. A group of squirtles wanted to band together and take back the underside of the docks from the mean zangoose that had taken up squatting there.

It was...tricky, resolving them. Not because I couldn't think of good solutions. That wasn't the test. The test was resolving them how Trident Lead wanted them resolved, without him giving a single visual cue.

I'd learned immediately that he could tell when I was guessing, and that guessing made him angry faster than being wrong with confidence. Not that he accepted being wrong, either - Trident Lead wanted things done his way, exactly, without error or delay.

For the squirtle with the milk, he wanted the squirtle to drink it, get sick, and learn his lesson. He wanted me to step on the tail of the squirtle that had been victimized and ask the meaner squirtle if he liked it. He wanted me to encourage the group of squirtles, with Big Brother sent for backup.

There wasn't an emotion that described that desire, so I had to intuit it from the combination that the blastoise did let free, which was always very deliberate and very sparse.

It was a challenge. I felt like a baby, learning a new language for the first time, with a very impatient parent. Except, unlike with Ashford back home, the language wasn't physical.

I'd gotten frustrated one time and actually resorted to hand language to get my point across, after trying to talk to squirtles obviously too young to even recognize human languages. It had worked, of course, but at some cost. Trident Lead had radiated intense confusion for one second, before irritably picking me up bodily and throwing me into the ocean. That message had been fairly easy to intuit.

No cheating.

It had been my breakthrough, however - now, instead of using the mistermime hand language, I simply imagined myself miming the signals I would have used. The more vividly I imagined, the more it worked. The first time I resolved one correctly and felt Trident Lead's approval, and knew it was directed towards me, I felt a burst of pride I hadn't felt since Professor Oak had first praised me.

I could already feel the world a little more keenly through my newly awakened senses. I could tell that Daikoku was having a great time with all his new friends, which made sense for the friendly ivysaur. I got a sense of bone-deep weariness and contentment from Filipe, enjoying the morning sun before he'd have to head off to more grueling training.

For Pikachu it was much more vivid. He knew as well as I did why I was here, and his feelings were a mirror of my own. Idly, I reached out a hand and ran my nails through his fur, scratching an itch I could _feel_ he had.

There was more to this language, this art, I could tell. I only had hints, but even hints made me excited for what I could imagine was possible.

My musing was brought to halt by a strong flash of negative emotion. The morning haze cleared instantly, and my eyes snapped to Big Brother, the originating point.

Somewhere in the middle of the romp, he'd wandered off and come to face with a golduck. I could feel his temper ramping up second by second, and I was up in a flash, making a fast trek to intercept.

Big Brother was shorter than the gangly Psychic-type by a head and half, and he stared up, growling to answer the sibilant hiss than was emanating from the taller pokemon's bill.

I almost snapped at Big Brother. He'd started a few fights since I'd become impromptu commander of the Squirtle Squads, for no other reason that he _liked_ fighting. But something made me pause.

I could taste the difference in the air. Normally, by now, Big Brother would already be swinging. He liked to start fights, even if he got punished for it afterwards. His body was rigid now, same as always, but he was holding back - holding_himself_ back. He didn't want to fight - he wanted to _hurt_.

The golduck's trainer swam up, climbing out of the water, approaching with wariness. "Hey man." He said carefully. "You want to control your guy there, yeah?"

I ignored him, and directed my attention towards the golduck. I didn't know him, hadn't spent more than a minute in his presence. But I could feel irritation, amusement, disdain. There was no way to know who'd started this confrontation.

But, when the golduck turned his head and clucked mockingly, not at Big Brother, but at Trident Lead, I knew _exactly _who was going to end it.

Before Big Brother could react at all, I snatched my hat off and shoved it into the wartortle's chest, forcing him back a step. Then, I reached out and grabbed the golduck by the beak, and forced him to look at me.

I didn't make a sound. I just stared into his eyes, and _knew_. Knew, and made him know, that the next time he opened his bill to utter a single of syllable of ableist crap that I would turn his five idol ass into change.

The golduck went a little crosseyed. I felt more disbelief than confusion.

The trainer broke in then, of course, forcing me back, which I allowed. "What the fuck, dude?" He snapped angrily.

I didn't bother to explain myself. Instead, I informed him that his pokemon had just pissed off two dozen squirtles and one out of two wartortles, the other which would be returning from hunting before too long, and that finding another spot of beach might be a wise course of action. I didn't bother mentioning Trident Lead, figuring the blastoise went without saying, given that, standing now and wide awake, he was likely the tallest thing on the beach.

The trainer shifted uneasily, eyeing up the squirtles who'd gone perfectly still as soon as I'd risen from my chair. They were all watching, heads cocked curiously, waiting for my direction.

And then he made the wiser decision and took my advice, just as I knew he'd would. I'd sized him up the second he swam up - he was no poke-battler, just another schmuck with a trainer's license.

Filipe plodded up, my bag clutched in one hand for some reason. He stared after the pokemon I'd just confronted uneasily. "Perhaps you should stay out of the water for a little while, crazy. Wild golducks are known to confuse trainers into drowning themselves, and from the looks that one was giving you, he was considering going back to his roots."

I acknowledged him with a grunt, and turned to Big Brother, holding out a hand expectantly.

The wartortle, regarding me with unreadable eyes, did nothing for a short second. Then, taking my hat in his massive claws, he very deliberately uncrumpled and smoothed it, taking great care with the unfamiliar object before returning it to me. I placed it back on my head, and Big Brother watched, seeming a bit stunned.

I raised one eyebrow at him, trying to compress my intention into a single facial twitch. Then, after a long moment of waiting, I glanced over his shoulder at the squirtles he was _supposed_ to have been watching.

Big Brother jerked as if he had been flicked in the ear, and stomped off in their direction, radiating a slight embarrassment.

I turned to Filipe - or more specifically, my bag, which I now realized had been vibrating this entire time, ringing with some unfamiliar, muffled tone. I patted down my pockets briefly, before remembering I had left my pokedex back on my beach chair, open with a half-written final bugfix report for the Professor on it.

He handed it over. "Figured it was for you."

Rummaging through it, I found the origin to be Bill's letter, the one he had shoved in my hands before kicking me out. After the experience he'd put me through, I'd forgotten to open it, and now pinched out what had initially felt like simple paper, but now appeared was obviously not.

A shimmering message flashed in red and gold lettering across the wafer-thin electronic paper, with a soundbyte of concierto music on loop over it. _LAST CALL TO BOARD_ It read. Slightly below, it continued with a steady tone._1:52:27_. It pinged every minute. On the back it read, _The Maiden Voyage of the SS Anne : A Once in a Lifetime Experience_.

Slightly poleaxed, I stared at it for nearly a minute. Eventually, Filipe snapped, "You're late, man!"

I twitched. This was...if I were a legendary cultish sort, a sign? No. I recalled briefly what I'd heard: the SS Anne, a groundbreaking foray into allowing non-military folks a first-look foray into the Dark Continents. The rich, non-military folks, of course.

I considered the chances that Lt. Surge wouldn't be included in this matter, and dismissed them as too slim. This was his city, damn all rank. He'd be on that boat, and my mind had an answer for the question I'd been pondering for the last week. And just maybe, with enough luck, good or bad...

I had to go. It wasn't a question. For a pokemon trainer like me, it was natural instinct to charge into this sort of breach, at least to me.

I jogged over to Trident Lead. I had to go, but I didn't say it.

It wasn't necessary, for him. I stood at attention before him, fixed with the uncomfortable feeling he could monitor the inner workings of my reasonings, and the uncommon feeling of anticipation that he might find any of them wanting. Somehow, somewhere, he had become my leader, and I didn't have it in me to question how.

He didn't judge. There was a short period of blankness, emotion wrestled behind clear, well defined doors. The blastoise's face shifted in several directions, brow creasing, gums rising over teeth, baring the predatory omnivore bones. Things that could have meant anything in any sapient species.

The blastoise made a decision abruptly, and started off, making his way down the beach in short, stumpy steps, the crowd of day-goers parting in his wake.

It wasn't a question of whether to follow. I did, with all my subordinates in wake.

The walk was utterly silent. Trident Lead had taken on a reverent air of sorts, that was easily detectible to those who cared to notice.

It was easy to see the effect on those it didn't. Smiling people he passed found their smiles fading. Pokemon playing stopped as he passed, and watched him go, immobile, like he had laid a spell on them in the middle of the surf. Volleyball games put aside, games of tag put on hold. Trident Lead was on a mission, and everything his wake was put on hold.

Wake. That was a good description. We were a vigil, without even knowing who was lost.

Eventually we migrated out of the sand, to the boardwalk of Vermillion. No one barred our way. The power of the creature guiding us acted as the nose of our prow. There was no words exchanged. The crowds simply parted.

We came to a museum. The structure was prefabricated, simple. It seemed like a four-story building folded in on itself into two, as if from some great pain. The community visiting it seemed younger than most. The greeter at the entrance balked at his appearance.

"I-I'll clear the gallery." He said, obviously used to the blastoise, but in no way _prepared_ for him. In a separate line of thought, I wondered if one could be.

We followed.

It was no great work of art we came upon. A great slab of steel had been liberated, from some great bulkhead. Upon it, names were inscribed, in a harsh font - too begrieved a scribe to be someone unfamiliar.

_Smn Aabernathy._

_S1C Ackerman._

_Pkmn Sgt Adelmar_

_E2C Bunko._

The list went on, and on, and _on_. I turned around, and found Filipe silent, staring at the names with lidded eyes, face slack and pale like he'd been shot. The emotions he radiated were a mad pastel - horror, anger, sorrow, all swaddled in a heavy blanket of reverence.

"Thank you _sir._" He said quietly, under his breath, soft words through a tightly controlled larynx. "Thank you _ma'am._"

I felt strange, out-of-place, at odds, without knowing - as if I had stepped onto holy grounds without knowing, void of customs, not aware of how to pay respect.

A weighty hand guided my steps. I found myself noticing Trident Lead's arm - blue-grey scales, marked with the scars of small mistakes. Dragging cuts, burns, gouges; he was no genius. Just smart, in the way the experienced were.

We came before a particular section of bulkhead. There were makeshift shrines set up all around, but this one, I could tell by the air of Trident Lead, was special, sacred to him. There was an odd terror in knowing that I stood in the heart of who he was.

There were other things on the table - a water-damaged letter, tags, a baton. It wasn't the important part I could tell, just from the atmosphere.

A visored helmet, built for no human cranium, dominated one side of the display. The chin straps were broken, sheared, as if it had been torn away by a powerful, clawed hand. There were stripes of rank on the front, along with the designation, _T-1_.

Trident Lead placed his meaty claw delicately upon the carapace, and turned to me, deep, weighing eyes measuring my every movement.

My breath left me. This was the deciding moment. I could even detect a hint of anticipation, eagerness, radiating from the older creature. I stretched out my hand and-

_-black, cold water, oil slick-_

_-howling gyrados mad with grief-_

_"-YOU SWORE__-"_

_-a petri dish of blood on those lauded decks-_

_-double agent, thrice turned-_

_-Giovanni Vittore-_

I gasped in breath, like a drowning man for air, a moment away from touching the helmet's surface. Warning signs flashed in my brain, heedless of evidence, survival instincts blaring out of some forgotten corner of the human mind.

I pulled my hand back, my vision sucked back to the present. The sounds of dying screams left my ears.

_What the hell was that?_

Trident Lead stared at me, in a way that could only denote disappointment.

Stumbling back, I fled the Hoenn War Museum. I had a cruise to catch. The monster's gaze followed me, all the way to the exit.

(=o=)

_Kanto Pokemon Encyclopedic Index Entry #009 (J. # 239): Blastoise_

_Basic Characteristic: Water-type, final evolution of squirtle. _ _Large, bipedal tortoise-like pokemon. Its body is dark blue and is mostly hidden by its tough, brown shell. Omnivorous. Avg. height 10'09", avg. weight 409.4 lbs (completely dehydrated)._

_Description: Only a few in very many squirtles will be born with the right trait and evolve into a wartortle. Of wartortles, because of their combative nature, fewer still will survive long enough to evolve into their final form. A blastoise is not merely an apex predator, but the accumulation of a lifetime of fighting experience. Where other evolutions occur naturally through time, the evolution to blastoise can only be triggered through repeated exposure to the hormones released during fight-or-flight situations. Over repeated battles, the wartortle's shell slowly warps to form the holes the cannons will eventually extend through, switching to a diet more common to rock-type pokemon to accumulate the ore necessary to grow them._

_Nickname(s): The Shellfish Pokémon, soldier turtles, gun-titans, the fist of Indigo_

_"...Blastoise are an interesting study in alternate methods of hydration. While they are perfectly capable of ingesting liquid and rehydrating the normal way, in a pinch, their shell can flex open, allowing water to seep inside in the case that they are submerged. If on land, they also possess an organ that acts as a sort of hyper-dehumidifier, absorbing water from the air through special pores which open in their skin. Their bodies, due to their tumultuous lifestyle, have adapted to be extremely efficient in budgeting water. It is only when kept away from water in very arid environments that the problem of limited 'ammunition' would be likely to occur ..."_

(=o=)

The Sevii Islands: A group of islands ranging from small to large to the southeast of the Indigo League coast, east of the Hoenn landmass and northeast of the Orange Islands. A protectorate of the Indigo League, they are most famous in recent history for the virus sweeping the islands. Lorelei, a native of the Islands, has lobbied passionately in the recent months for more aid to be sent, petitioning Silph Co in particular. The company has yet to release a statement.

Broke-backing: A condition unique to the blastoise line of evolution. Due to the immense amount of stress the shell undergoes in the pokemon's lifetime, eventually, some break. In the wild, this is almost always a fatal condition, being as the shell breaking robs the creature of its means of buoyancy and respiration. Typically, at this point, most blastoise choose to accept their fate, swimming out to sea until the weight of the water seeping into their shell overcomes them, pulling them to the bottom and drowning them.

Cold storage: A punishment for criminal pokemon deemed unable to reintegrate into the wild. A pokemon put in cold storage is placed in a long term pokeball indefinitely, until the resources to rehabilitate them become available. Typically, cold storage cases are not reviewed for years.


End file.
